Like
all art and essentially all language, stories translate events into something
we can understand. They package the random and the abstract into a thematically
meaningful and structured narrative. The purpose of a story is not to relate
merely the facts of what occurred, but to in some way interpret what meaning we
are to derive from them.
So
in telling this story I am in some cases altering the order and timing of
certain events merely for the sake of pacing. Because the purpose of
storytelling is translation more than transcription, you will find that stories
that are less married to the facts are often much closer to the truth.
During
the establishing scenes of all monster movies there is always something more
sinister occurring somewhere in the background. In the omniscient neutrality
that the audience is granted, we are aware of this much sooner than the
players. We have seen the movie poster and the trailers. We know the title and
the director. In most cases even the actors tell us the genre of the film we’re
about to watch.
In real life
people don’t know what kind of story they’re in, so they don’t know that while
they’re joking about becoming President of the United
States there is something awful walking the streets of
downtown Savannah ,
and even it doesn't yet know that what it’s looking for is a victim.
EXT.
SAVANNAH CONGRESS STREET
WIDE SHOT SLOWLY TRACKS DOWN CONGRESS STREET LOT
THAT LETS OUT ONTO THE STREET. THE SHOT IS CLUMSY AND HANDHELD LIKE THE POV OF
A PERSON STUMBLING THROUGH THE CITY.
As the unseen
visitor stumbles down the street, some onlookers passively regard him, but no
one pays him any real attention. He wanders as though looking for something in
the Savannah
SHOT TRACKS TOWARD
THE RAIL PUB, VERY NEARLY AT THE END OF CONGRESS.
This evening is like
any other in Savannah
MOVE IN TOWARD THE
WINDOWS, WHERE A GROUP CAN BE SEEN SEATED AT A TABLE INSIDE. THE WATCHER PAUSES
TO REGARD THEM A MOMENT, THEN PLACES A BLOODIED HAND ON THE GLASS. STILL NO ONE
SEEMS TO NOTICE HE’S THERE.
CUT TO:
INT.
RAIL PUB - CONTINUOUS
Back
in the Rail, I was walking to the bar in search of cigarettes. Dane and I
didn’t really smoke, but we shared a predilection for smoking while we drank,
so in this regard we were terrible influences on each other. But vice tends to
bond people in a way that virtue often fails to do.
Alicia
was standing at the bar when I got there. I stood next to her and waited for
someone to notice me. It’s good that I had a friend there, because getting
noticed by bartenders is not exactly my forte’.
“Whassup,”
I said to Alicia with that level of familiarity that indicates no need for
pretense.
“Hey
Sean,” she said back casually, noticing the campaign button I was wearing. “What’s
this?”
“Campaign
button,” I told her. “I’m running for President.”
“You’re
retarded,” she laughed.
“That
never stopped anybody from running before.”
Not
interested in continuing that conversation (which suited me because I’d already
exhausted it with Dane and Charlotte), Alicia looked across the bar and noticed
a mildly attractive Bohemian-looking guy. She pointed him out to me as though
the very sight of him would provoke an amusing tirade.
“What
do you think of that guy?” she ribbed me. “Doesn’t he look like a total
douchebag?”
I
glanced in his direction, but I knew she was baiting me. The Bohemian guy had
long unkempt hair and ratty sandals. Granted, this look was usually enough to
set me off, but I was determined to take the high road this time.
“You’re
not gonna draw me into a debate here, Alicia. I don’t try to start fights anymore;
I’m trying to find my positive center.”
“What
about that guy the other night?”
“He
was wearing a visor!” I argued. “Indoors! At night! Who does that?”
“You’re
so persnickety, Sean...” she observed in a politely patronizing tone.
I
liked being referred to as persnickety.
“Well,
I’m trying to be a better person now and I’m not going to play your little
game,” I said with dramatic condescension. But in truth I didn’t want to lose
my reputation for being persnickety. That was one of my defining vices too.
“What
do you think of his sandals?” she poked, adding facetiously: “I think they’re
sexy!”
“Sandals
are for gladiators,” I deadpanned. “Or Jesus.”
“He
looks kind of like Jesus.”
“He
looks kind of like a dirty hippie.”
“Jesus
was kind of a dirty hippie,” Alicia conceded. “But I like dirty hippies. I’d
probably do him too.”
She
waited patiently for the response she felt this comment deserved, but was
disappointed to see that it was not forthcoming.
“Does
that offend you?” she asked, knowing it didn’t.
“No,”
I told her. “I’ve just heard you say it before.”
She
sighed. We’d all heard each other’s jokes before.
“I
need to meet new people,” she grumbled “It’s so much easier than coming up with
new material.”
I
had made an incredibly clumsy and obnoxious pass at making conversation, then
followed up by spilling my whiskey on her and immediately demanding another. She
either did not remember this or was too nice to say so.
But
I was too caught up in my ongoing debate with Alicia to give the matter more
than a passing regard.
“You
are out of your mind!” I told her. “It’s obvious that C would be better!”
“I
thought you said A was better!” she contradicted.
“Everyone
knows A is best! That’s not in question. Beyond that it’s just a matter of
whether you’d rather be B or C.”
“Then
it’s definitely B!” Alicia insisted.
I
took out the pack of Kools I’d procured at the bar, lighting one for myself and
handing the pack to Dane.
“All they
had were Kools,” I told him, then redirected my attention to Alicia: “You’re
insane. B gets it on both ends. That’s the worst of all!”
“But
at least B gets to dish it out!”
“You’re
disgusting.”
“What’s
the argument?” asked Dane, keen to get in on it.
“What
part of a Human Centipede would you rather be?” Alicia posed to him with utter
seriousness.
“A,”
Dane answered reflexively.
“You
can’t be A,” I told him, trying to define the parameters of the exercise.
“What’s
a Human Centipede?” Charlotte
asked.
“It’s
when you sew three people together ass-to-mouth, ass-to-mouth,” I casually
informed her.
This
was not a satisfactory introduction to the concept.[1]
“Why
would you do that?” Charlotte
demanded.
“Cause
that’s how Dieter Laser rolls,” I said in a deliberate effort to deliver a
useless response.
Alicia
decided to move on: “Anyway, A is a given because he doesn’t have his mouth
sewn to anyone’s ass, so the question is if you’d rather be B or C.”
“Which
is obvious...” I said confidently, then was amazed to hear Dane answer “B!” as
I said “C!” Dane was equally surprised at the discrepancy between our two
answers.
“Are
you serious?” I asked him. “You’re on her
side? B has it the worst of all!”
“Not
really,” Dane argued. As far as I was concerned, this was as valid a thing to
say as “maybe Hitler was right”.
“How
not really?” I demanded. “You have your mouth sewn into someone’s ass and
someone else’s mouth sewn into yours!”
“Yeah,
but at least that way you’re not a total victim. You get to shit in someone
else’s mouth.”
“Why
would you want to shit in someone’s mouth?” I looked at Dane and Alicia like
they had suddenly admitted to vampirism.
“I’m
just saying,” Dane said nonchalantly, “if someone’s shitting in my mouth...”
“That’s
what I’m saying!” insisted Alicia.
“You’re
terrible people, both of you,” I declared piously. I have no tolerance for
mouth-shitters.
A
new development saved us from taking this discussion to further depths. One
which will also serve to move along our story.
ENTER: STEFAN
Every
now and then there’s a drunk guy so unbelievably obnoxious it’s kind of
endearing. That night it wasn’t me. I’m a sweetheart on my worst night compared
to Stefan.
He
was a four foot German who approached our table inexplicably and was just as
inexplicably pissed off at the whole of existence. All attempts at conversation
ended in bile.
He
looked confused and disheveled. We were so amused at the idea of him that we
didn’t even notice that his right hand was covered in dried blood.
Considering
he chose to stand in such close proximity with no stated purpose, I decided to
extend a greeting.
“What’s
up?”
He
moved between me and Dane to sit on a stool near Charlotte . His surly countenance softened
somewhat at the sight of her.
“Vhat’s
up vith you?” he asked of her instead
of answering me. “I am Stefan.”
“Where
are you from?” she humored him. The novelty of any new experience is enough to
make it acceptable to the inebriated.
“Vhere
ze fuck do you sink I’m from?” he said sharply.
“Doucheland?”
Tracy asked. He
had a distinct German accent.
“Deutschland!”
he corrected her, which was unnecessary since the mispronunciation had been
deliberate.
“Whatever,”
said Tracy ,
unfazed at the admonishment.
Dane
decided to try his hand, asking Stefan: “Did you come here for SCAD?”
The
little man snorted indignantly.
“Do
I look like a fucking art student?” he complained.
“Yes,”
I told him. He absolutely did.
“Do
you like it here?” Charlotte
asked him, at this point making conversation out of pure fascination.
“No, I
fucking hate it here!” he barked angrily, as if all questions were infuriating.
“Then
what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked him with annoyance. I meant it in
every applicable way.
“I
don’t fucking know!” he admitted.
“Well,
how’d you get here?” I pressed him.
“How
did you get here, asshole?” was his
curt rejoinder.
Without
asking, Stefan took a cigarette from the pack of Kools and used my lighter to
light it. Scowling at the flavor, he examined the pack with disgust.
“I
hate fucking Kools!” he spat out with rage.
“Sorry,
Stefan,” I said insincerely, “they were out of Marlboros.”
“I
hate fucking Marlboros too!”
He
took offense at this even though we never offered him a cigarette at all. He
was beside himself with anger at the prospect of settling, and banged his tiny
fist on the table in defiance.
We
took no offense, mostly because we couldn’t stop laughing. Stefan was a
treasure, an unexplainable force of nature. Like an angry little gnome sent to
entertain us with his ire.
The
conversation tapered off, and after introductions were made Stefan couldn’t
remember anyone’s name so he decided to call everyone Ross. Except me. Me he continued
to call Asshole.
Although
Stefan showed us nothing but hostility, he remained anchored to our table. After
a while he attempted to impress the girls with his sensitivity by showing
pictures of a baby he claimed to be his son. But when questioned as to why he
would leave his newborn baby behind to come to a town he couldn’t stand for no
apparent reason, he recanted his original story and confessed the child was his
stepbrother. Then he thrust this photo - which depicted an infant holding what
looked to be a kielbasa sausage - at the guys and said: “Now tell me this is
the cutest fucking baby you’ve ever seen!”
Stefan
had no charm and no class, he was completely obnoxious and rebuffed all
attempts at civility. He also had crazy eyes and a tendency to stare, which was
starting to creep me out. But we couldn’t seem to get enough of him. Dane
equated him to some kind of coin-operated automaton. We’d just wind him up
every time we were ready for another tirade.
By
the end of the night the girls were gone (perhaps due in some part to Stefan’s
constant advances), but he was still there. He plopped down next to me, giving
us a look like it was our fault he couldn’t do any better.
“Vell,”
he grumbled, “zis turned out to be a dickfest.”
“Yeah, I
wonder how that happened,” I said irritably, then rose and announced: “I’m
going to take a piss.”
“I
hope you fall in, asshole,” he said as I walked away.
When
I was gone he picked up my beer and finished it for me with continued distaste.
Now
alone at the table with Stefan, Dane did his best to ignore him.
Stefan
put the bottle down. As Dane looked around to see if anyone might be coming
back, Stefan licked his upper lip with what looked like a slimy black tongue.
Dane caught this in the corner of his eye and turned to look, but the black
thing darted back into Stefan’s mouth as he did.
“Zey
are coming, you know,” Stefan told him ominously.
“Who?”
asked Dane.
Someone
finally broke the uncharacteristic quiet of the bar by playing a song on the
jukebox. Stefan winced at the sound. He shook his head, sticking his pinky
finger in his ear like he was trying to clear water out of it. Dane noticed his
red hand for the first time.
Stefan
rose suddenly.
“I
hope you all die,” he told Dane calmly. “Especially your asshole friend. I go
now. Good day.”
And
as abruptly as he’d risen, he exited.
That information came from Dane, but in case
you’re having trouble following the POV shift, this is what was going on with
me:
The
night was winding down as I made my way to the bathroom. The line outside the
Loo (as the sign on the door identified it) was not long at all, but the guy
ahead of me looked annoyed anyway. He was an olive-skinned Greek in his
twenties.
“You
know what’s amazing?” he asked me. “I can get all the pussy I want, but it
doesn’t even matter.”
“That
is amazing,” I answered, although I
remained incredulous as to the thesis of this statement.
“I
mean, we Greeks created the world! We invented... the screw... we, uh, we came
up with... the winefest...” He was saved from having to provide further examples
by the opening of the bathroom door.
The
Greek took what seemed like an incredible amount of time in the bathroom. After
a while the guy behind me asked: “What the hell’s he doin’ in there?” Then he
kicked the door hard to let the Greek know he meant business.
A
minute later the Greek came out of the bathroom, looking even more upset.
“Who was it?” he
demanded of me. “You?”
“You
don’t know if it was me or not!” I insisted. I didn’t want to back down, but it
wasn’t me.
Satisfied,
he said “that’s right” and marched past me to the big guy behind. I walked into
the bathroom and never saw how the altercation played out.
On
the bathroom wall someone had written: “I fucked your mom.” In rebuttal,
another person had added: “Go home, Dad. You’re drunk.”
Above
this in bold strokes was written: “Chuck Norris made crop circles to show the
world that sometimes corn needs to lay the fuck down.” The Rail has the
greatest bathroom graffiti of any place I’ve ever been.
Written
just above the urinal at eye level a cryptic prophecy sobered me somewhat. It
promised:
December 2012
the world ends...
[1] If this is not satisfactory for you either,
let me just sum up:
In
the film Human Centipede a mad German
doctor kidnaps 3 people and sews them together into a single entity by lining
them up (as shown in the figure below) and sewing subject B’s mouth into
subject A’s ass and subject C’s mouth into subject B’s ass, then running subject
A’s intestines through B and C in one long shared digestive tract.
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