One Reel Movie a Short Story by Flesheater

That morning I was full of energy. Just two minutes ago I saw a trailer to a movie that I wrote
which was due out next week. The name of the film was John Titor: Centurion of Time and I had to
admit the trailer looked pretty damn good. The director made what I wrote on the page look a hell of a
lot better on screen.
My name is Kent Sanderson and I’m a writer and I’ve been working on this damn short story for
the past three months. Usually when I get writer’s block I’ll snort a line and watch mindless television. I
must’ve seen these commercial ads for Nicolas Cage’s Ghostrider Flaming Skull hot sauce and his Gone
in Sixty Seconds frozen low fat gourmet dinners several dozen times. The guy went from being an action
star to owner of his multibillion dollar company called Cage Corp, the richest company in the world
which pretty much ran the entire country.
I called my good friend, Mike Striker who stars as John Titor in all of the Titor films… and yes I
wrote them all. I made a career out of writing those films. Mike was on another press tour, promoting
the new John Titor film and he was coming back into town tomorrow and wanted to meet up for drinks
with another friend of ours named Jeff Moretz who wrote the music score for the films. I accepted his
invitation even though when the three of us combined forces nothing good ever came from it. The night
usually ended up with an arrest and a night in detox. But I suppose it’s not so bad. I make enough money
to get the best call girls around town.
Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” flowed through my IPOD speakers and filled the room as I
snorted a line off the back of a call girl as I rear ended her while watching West World on television.
Then I started telling her some interesting facts about Yul Brynner during the anal fortification. At least I
thought they interesting. She didn’t even know who the actor was and I had to point out that he was the
bald guy playing the killer robot. I could tell she was getting annoyed by my constant rambling about the
actor. This is what I called multitasking. I snorted another line and howled like a wolf. I was flying higher
than Superman at this point.
“Who is this?” The girl said.
“Who’s what?” I said, rubbing my nose.
“This playing… Who is this?”
“Glenn Miller,” I responded while smacking her ass.
“Is he still around?”
“No. He was taken away by aliens.”
“What?” She said, craning her head toward me with a confused look.
I pulled my dick out of her ass and wiped droplets of semen from my penis with a rag. I reached
for a cigarette and said, “His plane disappeared over the English channel. No one really knew what
happened to him so I just assume aliens took him. Either that or he was captured and tortured by Nazis.
Besides he wouldn’t be alive today anyway.”
“You know you’re probably the weirdest client I have ever met,” She said with a chuckle. “You’re
creepy but there’s still something sweet about you.”
I was tired. So I told the girl she looked great enough to be in the movies, paid her and she left.
That’s how my day usually starts out when I have writer’s block. But there’s nothing more agitating
when you have a block writing a one reel movie or in other words a short story.
My body was drenched with sweat so I turned on the fan and laid on the bed the rest of the
morning. I should’ve been writing but watched the rest of West World. The slogan to the movie was,
‘Boy have we got a vacation for you.’ Well, I just took my vacation so thanks but no thanks. Besides
being maimed by a robotic Yul Brynner doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.
I sat at the computer looking at online porn instead of writing. I glanced at my watch and it was
ten in the morning and the checkout time was noon. I snorted another line and watched a porno before
packing up my belongings and leaving to check out.
The desk clerk gave me an estranged look and I glanced at my reflection in a mirror perched on
the desk and my eyes were completely bloodshot. I looked like an all mighty demon or someother
menacing creature from the great beyond.
“You okay, buddy,” The desk clerk said to me.
“I just wanna’ check out,” I said with a calm tone. I didn’t want to draw attention. I just wanted
to get home.
“Sure, okay.”
I could tell the clerk was trying not to look at me so I slipped on my shades. “There is that
better?” I said to the clerk.
“What?”
“I noticed you kept looking at me. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t draw attention to my
appearance.”
“I’m sorry… didn’t mean to stare.”
“Had a wild and rough night,” I said to him just before walking out.
I mean there was no way I would ever have a prostitute come to my place of residence. The last
thing I need is some skank and her pimp knowing where I live and perhaps stealing things. Stranger
things have happened in this corrupt world and I certainly don’t want any part of it. But no matter how
hard I tried to steer clear from the path of trouble it always tends to find me. Either that or perhaps it’s
the fact that I’ve never made a smart decision in my life.
The cool breeze felt great during the ride home. I thought about this morning and couldn’t think
of a better way to start the day than watching a classic movie, listening to a little jazz while doing lines of
coke off the back of a naked hooker.
While driving I rubbed my nose and my eye lids became heavy. I closed my eyes for a split
second and opened them to the sight of an oncoming car.
“Jesus!” I shouted, swerving the car out of the way and slamming into a palm tree. The car
snapped the thin tree trunk. I dispersed from the vehicle and heard the sound of crunching metal as the
tree fell on top of the car, crushing it into dust. A minute later a police car pulled up at the scene and I
puked as I felt my entire world spinning out of control. But some of that probably had to do with the
narcotics surging through my system.
“Sir, would you mind explaining to us what happened here?” One of the officers asked.
I felt outnumbered and was all out of ideas. I was at a loss for words. I had to accept the fact
that there was no way out of this one. I had the movie premiere for the new John Titor film tomorrow
night and not to mention I was suppose to meet Mike Striker and Jeff Moretz for drinks before the
premiere. But with my car now a heap of metal and the boys in blue standing in my presence my fight
or flight reflex ignited. I tried to run. I heard the cops shout, “Hey, get back here!” and the other officer
shouted, “We got a runner!” Just hearing that made me feel like Logan Six from Logan’s Run. The effects
from the drugs made me feel invincible like as if I could get away. That was until… ZAP! I felt the searing
pain of a Taser sending electrodes through my body.
“Ahh!” I screamed, collapsing to the ground, shaking, pissing my pants.
A crowd of onlookers gathered around to enjoy the show as I was pummeled and beaten by the
officers. I mean they knew I was doped up just with my strange behavior and not to mention my blood
shot eyes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.
The police yanked me from the ground and shoved me back into the police car. I kept banging
my head hoping to shatter the glass in hopes of escaping while shouting, “Get me out!”
“Shut up!” The cop in the driver seat shouted.
The cop in the passenger seat tased me one more time before I passed out. I awoke sometime
later in a jail cell. My clothes were covered with dried chunks of vomit and I overheard the two cops
saying that they had to hose vomit from the back seat of the police car. They used excessive force as I
felt my ribs ach from having been beaten with their night stick and I knew it was due to the fact that I
was unruly.
They told me I could make a phone call so I stumbled down the hallway. My head was throbbing
and I felt like the poor psychologist in the movie Scanners just before Ironside’s character Darryl Revok
forced his head to detonate in the famous exploding head scene. I called Mike Striker to come and pick
me up. An hour later I heard people shout, “It’s him! It’s really him!” Another person shouted, “Yo’,
John Titor!” I knew right away that it was Mike to my rescue.
A police officer approached the jail cell with Mike following behind. Mike flashed his movie star
grin and said, “What the hell happened?”
“Rough night,” I responded.
“Yeah, I can see that… I saw the palm tree that you creamed with your car.”
“The palm tree?” I said. “How do you know about that?”
“It was all over the news man,” Mike said, laughing. “That shit was fuckin’ hilarious, man.”
I was so embarrassed. I leaned my head against the wall, closing my eyes. “It was on the fucking
news?”
Mike laughed. “Yeah…. It was pretty funny.”
“My picture wasn’t on there was it?”
“Yeee… no… you lucked out on that one buddy. There was no picture.”
“Shit,” I sighed. “Man, you scared me with that yeee’ sound.”
“Hey, at least you’re not an actor. We really have our lives on the line.”
“Yeah… tell me about it. You actors gain all the credit that writers put down on paper. Shit,
man… not even directors gain any of the credit.”
“Okay, I’m gettin’ you outta’ here.”
“What do you mean?” I said, confused.
“I paid for your bail.”
“Really? But that was—”
“A shit load of money. I know… forget about it… consider it a gift. Let’s just get you out of this
rat hole.”
I left the jail cell and had to admit that I felt like a new born trying to walk again. But perhaps
that was just the effects of the drugs wearing off. I wasn’t really sure. I just felt lost and confused at this
moment.
“Was my car totaled?” I asked.
“Well, of course man. You were there.”
“Yeah, but I was so fucked up… I can’t really remember anything.”
“We’ve all been there,” Mike said, patting me on the back.
“I think I need to go to… what was that place you were at?”
“Sobriety Care. I should tell you there are some pros and cons about staying in a place like that.
The pro being I got my needle sucked by the actress Carol Branson and the con being I was chased by an
overweight Samoan with a heavy coke problem.”
“You’re joking right?”
“Serious… deadly serious… bro… The dude shouted he loved me and was eventually tackled by
a few cops,” Mike said, laughing.
“Holy shit. See, that’s how I should end my short story.”
“How’s that going?” Mike said, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s… uh… slow process.”
We walked to the car where Jeff Moretz got out of the passenger side and approached me,
giving me a big bear hug.
“You lazy schmuck!” I shouted to him while laughing, “You couldn’t get your lazy ass out of the
car to come and get me?”
“Hey, someone’s gotta’ watch the getaway car,” he said. “So… your asshole bleeding yet?”
“Luckily no one tried to pop my cherry in there.”
We drove down the street and I stuck my head out the window like a dog, letting the cool
breeze blast through my hair. It made me feel good.
“Isn’t that illegal?” Jeff shouted from the back seat.
“Oh, yeah… hey,” Mike said. “Get your head back in here. Christ almighty I just spent a fortune
bailing your juvenile-ass out of jail… don’t need you going back in there.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“New place that just opened… place called The Sexophone.”
“The Sexophone? What’s that?” Jeff asked.
“It’s a strip and a jazz club… first of its kind. Besides I have a meeting with my agent there.”
“At a strip club?” I said, sounding confused.
“Only you, Mike,” Jeff laughed. “You’re the only person that I know that would have their agent
meet them at a freakin’ strip club.”
“Hey, it’s a classy place. He’s giving me the script for this new movie called Pure Blood.”
“Pure Blood?” I said. “I doubt there’s any pure bloods working at the strip club.”
Jeff and Mike laughed.
“Funny… smart ass. It’s a post-apocalyptic vampire movie about the last remaining humans on
earth, fleeing from a race of vampires that pursue them through a desert landscape.”
“Are you gonna’ do it?” I ask.
“Well they are paying me quite a bit for the role. The John Titor films have pretty much type
cast me into the action, sci-fi genre so I can’t turn it down.”
“Just think of it this way… you’re like a smaller version of Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“You know… Ahhnold was originally supposed to take the John Titor role until he had to back
out due to his governorship.”
“We know,” I said. “You told us that a thousand times over.”
Mike dropped me off at my house and I took a quick a nap before those two clowns came to
pick me up and we were at the jazz/strip joint. The place was lit up like a beacon with a neon sign that
read: The Sexophone with a picture of a woman’s breast in the shape of a saxophone and a man’s lips
blowing into it.
We walked inside and there was strippers as far as the eye could see. The strippers were dolled
up in nineteen fifties fashion as they pranced around on poles while two musicians played. One musician
was playing the piano while the other was playing the saxophone.
Mike lit a cigar and said, “This place is as rad as bad baby.”
I looked at him in utter confusion and said, “Bad meaning…”
“Bad meaning cool,” Mike responded.
“Perhaps coming here will help me think of an ending to that one reel movie I’m stuck on,” I
said, scoping out the place.
“You’re still stuck on that?” Jeff shouted.
“Yeah, the damn thing is irritating but I don’t wanna’ give it up. It’s the best damn thing I’ve ever
written. I just need to think of an ending.”
We sat down near the stage where the action was. The musician playing the saxophone was a
large black man with dreadlocks. He resembled The Predator and he was jammin’ up on stage.
Immediately one of the strippers made her way over to us. She started giving Jeff a lap dance
and his face was completely buried in her breasts. Mike and I ordered our drinks. I ordered a Whiskey
seven and Mike ordered a Pepsi Next. As for Jeff he was occupied with other things at that very
moment.
The drinks came momentarily and I looked at the Pepsi can which read Cage Corp’s Pepsi Next:
Invented by Hollywood superstar Nicolas Cage. A picture of his face was on the front of the can.
“Mike, you sure you don’t wanna’ real drink?” I shouted.
“I can’t. I don’t wanna’ go back to that rehab clinic. That place is freaky as hell.”
I pulled out a tiny mirror and a little bag of cocaine and carefully placed the white powder onto
the mirror and with a little razor made separate lines.
“You wanna’ hit this?” I asked Mike.
“No. I got a good head on my shoulders and I want to keep it there. But you go ahead man… let
er’ rip.”
I figure Jeff’s having his fun with the stripper and I might as well have fun of my own. I snorted a
line and felt invincible like the last son of Krypton. Soon after Mike’s agent Frank approached the table
holding a screenplay. He sat down and both were in the middle of a discussion. Mike was thumbing
through the script. I asked if I could take a look at it and began thumbing through the pages.
“Rubbish!” I shouted. “It’s all rubbish. I could pull a better script out of my ass!” I shouted.
They both shot me a glare and I knew I had to shut my mouth. It was the effects of the cocaine
forcing me to say stuff that made me appear to be a complete jack ass. So I grabbed Mike’s Pepsi Next
can and stared at the face of Nicolas Cage and I swear his eyes moved. The effect of the booze and
cocaine was that much of a lethal mix.
The room spun around and I could tell that Mike and his agent were agitated with me as I kept
interrupting their conversation.
“Kent, why is your face droopy like that?”
“It’s okay man just the effects of the drugs,” I said, smacking my sagging lips. “They’re making
my face droopy. Punch me now and I wouldn’t feel a thing.”
“Trust me,” Mike said, looking angry, “I’m thinking about it. You might wanna’ cool it with that
shit for a while. Besides you’re getting Coke Bloat. That shit’s making your face puff out like a balloon.
You’re starting to look like Louie Anderson.”
“Fuck you,” I shouted.
“That’s it… you and I… outside,” Mike shouted.
“What… you wanna’ fight?” I said, trying to stand but instead I bumped into tables and knocked
over drink glasses. I looked around and noticed that the musicians had stopped playing and the strippers
had stopped dancing and everyone in the club was looking in our direction, completely stunned by the
turn of events.
“Lets talk outside,” Mike said. “I don’t wanna’ fight you… just talk… two guys… two friends.”
Mike helped me walk and we both went outside.
“So what’s going on? Mike said. “This isn’t like you. You’re more fucked up than I’ve ever seen
you man.” Mike lit a cigarette. “You gotta’ stop with this shit. You need to go to that rehab clinic that I
went to otherwise… you’re gonna’ meet your maker. So what’s going on?”
I could feel sweat gushing down my face. “I went to the doctors a month ago…” I trailed off,
unable to speak.
“Yeah… come on man… this is supposed to be a nice evening and you’re making me look like an
asshead in front of my agent. I need to do this movie so I can pay off my alimony man. You’re not the
only one that has to make a living in this town.”
I looked around and everything continued to spin even the billboard sign which read: Cage Corp
“Mike, I’m already drying, man,” I finally said, my voice trembling.
“What?” He said in pure shock. “Jesus Christ… why didn’t you tell me, man?”
“It’s hard… it’s hard to talk about this shit with my best friend.”
“Hard to talk about it? After all the shit we’ve been through. After all the times we got fucked up
on movie sets and got in trouble with directors and studio heads and had hookers stumble out of my
trailer you can’t talk this over with me? I thought this was all because you were having trouble with that
short story you’ve been writing.”
I leaned against the wall and I was trying very hard not to puke. After a moment of silence I said,
“Well that’s some of the problem. But It’s my heart. I have heart problems.”
“Well it’s all that crap you put into your body… all of the drugs, man. Look, I’m going to give you
this…” Mike reached into his wallet and gave me a card which read: Sobriety Care: Taking sobriety one
step at a time.
I took it from him. I knew I needed help but I doubt rehab would do the trick for me. If anything
it would strengthen my addiction. The narcotics that I put into my body allowed me to create some of
my best work. It’s like the old saying… no junk no soul. I had never seen Mike this way before. He looked
far from the heroic John Titor that he played on screen. He had this somber look in his eyes and he knew
exactly what I was going through.
“Look, man,” Mike said. “We got the premiere tomorrow. You gotta’ keep your shit together.
You can’t act like this.”
“I know. I ‘m cool… cool as ice… solid as a rock, man.”
“Okay, because I don’t think it’ll help matters much if the movie’s screenwriter showed up to
the premiere completely incoherent with a nose full of nose candy. It didn’t help my career much when I
showed up to the premiere of the fourth John Titor film completely warped out of my mind. That’s why I
was sent to that rehab. It’s just… hopefully when you go and you will… you won’t be chased around by a
fat Samoan while he’s hopped up on cocaine.”
We reentered the club and immediately The Predator said to us. “Hey, you guys alright?”
“We’ll be fine,” Mike said.
But I wasn’t too sure about that. After a few seconds of clutching the wall for support I began to
spew vomit from my mouth like an erupting volcano.
“Ah, man… what the hell?” The Predator shouted. “You boys better leave… the owner of this
place won’t like this.”
“We’re sorry,” Mike said.
“Yeah… We’re sorry, man.” I got halfway until I puked again.
“Just leave… now,” The Predator said, his face looked just as intimidating as the real Predator
from the Schwarzenegger film.
“I guess I’ll have to finish my meeting out in the parking lot,” Mike said.
So the four of us left the The Sexophone and Frank handed Mike the script to Pure Blood and
said, “Call me in the morning.”
The ride home was nauseating. My chest felt like it was being compressed by a vise. Jeff looked
at me and said, “You don’t look so good, bro.”
“Speak for yourself, fuckaroo,” I said, flicking him off with my quivering hand.
When I walked inside my humble domain the first thing I did was set my alarm clock for three in
the afternoon. I figured that would give me a couple of hours to write before tonight’s premiere for John
Titor: Centurion of Time. Usually I would be happier than a horse dipped in shit to show up to a premier
party centering around a movie that I wrote. But that wasn’t the case now.
An hour later I awoken, having slight pains in my chest. At first I ignored them and tried to sleep.
Then another one hit me like a freight train so I awoke. I took a pain reliever, took a cold shower and sat
down to write and finish this one reel movie. I felt my chest compress and I felt like Kane from the movie
Alien, expecting something to pop out.
I reached into my desk drawer and reached for a bag of cocaine, small razor and began cutting a
line on a small mirror and inhaled with a rolled up dollar bill. I shouted, “WOO-AH!” Al Pacino-style and
coughed as I felt the effects of the drug take hold. I began typing and felt empowered as it surged
through my body. I felt inspired and it only took me fifteen minutes to finish the last five pages. I felt like
Captain Ahab in some alternate ending to Moby Dick where he had actually slayed the white whale. But
I felt my chest compress even harder. I couldn’t help but feel the need to lie down. I still had two hours
before the premiere party. I slowly drifted into a deep dark void.
They always say the lucky few will one day die doing what they truly love. Well, I flat lined
conquering the industry with a series of movies featuring a heroic Time Traveler by the name of John
Titor. I guess I could say he was the equivalent of a modern day cowboy and I was so glad to have met
Mike Striker who was the equivalent of a modern day John Wayne and Jeff Moretz who I was also
fortunate enough to have known was a better music composer than Basil Poluedouris and Jerry
Goldsmith put together.
I guess because of my passing I became a legend in in my own right. The movie’s that
I wrote were flying off video shelves like the Light cycles from Tron which made the John Titor franchise
one of the greatest money making franchises in history. My short fiction was included in every magazine
and yes… even compiled into book anthology form as well. You’re all probably wondering how I know
this when I have already passed away. Well the soul never really leaves the earth. At least if you’re
someone like me who had spent most of his adult life and career strung out on every narcotic known to
man just to get through the day.
When you’re an artist and you’re alive no one really seems to notice until your candle burns
out before your time is due. Then you become a legend. I suppose it’s just as well. I’ll admit I didn’t live
my life in the most wholesome way. I was strung out on narcotics most of my adult life and I was an
asshole. But if I could live my life over again… well… who the hell am I kidding… I’d do that shit all over
again. It was a roller coaster ride for the mind, baby and that was a ride I never wanted to get off. I rode
high until the very end and when it came time to depart from this world I had an easy closure on life.
Yes, it is true that I lived fast but I died happy and that was my one reel movie.

THE END.

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