Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Happy Hump Day, crime slicksters. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where the girls are hot, the drinks are cold, and the hardboiled-pulp-noir action is non-stop, right here, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In Chapter 20 of DAZED, BEAUTIFUL & BRUISED, police chief Larry Lipshitz plays a gruesome tape made by under-aged serial killer Sparkle Plenty for the homicide detectives which turns more than their stomachs ...
INT. POLICE STATION - LIPSHITZ’ OFFICE - NIGHT
Bernie sits across from Larry’s desk.
A half-dozen HOMICIDE DETECTIVES stand
around, chatting, drinking coffee.
Lipshitz looks like shit,
eyes hollow sockets.
He pulls out a brown bottle.
Pours some into his coffee. Takes a sip.
My wife was crying last night,
couldn’t get any sleep,
we were up all night --
We gotta get this -- succubus, Bernie.
I’m there like white on rice, Lare.
Thanks for the banality, Bernie.
It’s oddly comforting.
Alright, everybody listen up.
We got another tape.
Actually, it’s a CD.
The killer’s gone digital.
Let’s hear it,
I’m getting a chubby already.
Shut the fuck up MacDonald, you prick.
You think this is funny?
No, sir -- I was just trying to lighten the mood.
They say that humour during a time of crisis --
Why don’t you go to the morgue, MacDonald,
get laid, and leave us to the detecting.
Fuck you, Keko -- you’re just pissed off
cause your wife went bearded clam-digging.
(bad Brit accent)
Shall we shag-carpet-munch now,
or should we shag-carpet munch later?
The detectives chuckle.
Now pay attention -- this one’s a doozy.
He goes to a boombox, punches a button.
The sexy coo of Donna Summer’s
LOVE TO LOVE YOU BABY oozes into the room.
Love the gay disco, chief.
Somethin’ you wanna tell us?
Fuck you. It’s my daughter’s --
Okay. Now everybody shut the fuck up.
Lipshitz hits the ‘play’ button.
The Ramones come on, the catchy
pop-punk of PET SEMATARY.
I don’t want to be buried,
in a pet cemetery, I don’t
want to live my life again --
The music fades, and we hear --
And the night when the wolves cry out,
listen careful, and you can hear me shout --
I don’t I don’t want to be buried,
in a pet cemetery --
Thanks for tuning in.
It’s time to par-tay, dog-gone it.
Damn, I crack myself up. Gotta watch that.
A shredded corpse is no laughing matter,
isn’t that right, awficer?
Hey, officer Krupke,
I feel pretty, oh so pretty --
Broad babbles more than Courtney Love on crank.
Paramount Pictures released PET SEMATARY
in 1988, a solid base hit.
The ten million dollar budget was well spent,
considering that it grossed
twenty-five million domestically --
and that’s not counting
international and ancillary revenues.
Steven King doesn’t consider it to be
a good adaptation of his novel,
since the director went with
a semi-comedic tone, which hurts
the scare factor, I must say.
But still, it’s good, clean, sick fun.
A personal fave. Two thumbs up my vag,
thas’ fah shure.
Today’s installation is an example of
what happens when a petty little dog turd
uses his power over people.
Well, this is the end of the line,
chopping down the family cherry tree, bub.
Buster Hymen time.
Don’t forget -- to spay and neuter your pet.
Then, the sickly sound of a knife
making rapid puncture wounds --
A chill runs through the room.
Keko leans forward, in shock.
Here’s where it really gets good --
Film is a collaborative art --
but since I’m an orphan,
I need parenting, guidance.
A firm, loving hand to --
to stop me before I --
I’ve got my adoption papers.
Can the 42nd Precinct’s golden couple
save me before the end of the third act?
Whaddaya think, Daddy?
I think -- I gotta go find Carrie.
First go take a look at the body.
And brace yourself. Crime scene tech
still can’t keep anything down.
PUSH IN on Bernie’s face.