Midnight Movie: A Novel (26 page)

He said, “You’ve been so busy that you didn’t know our country was falling apart at the seams?” And then he laughed, like a high-pitched giggle. I smelled salami again and felt woozy, so, not so gently, I flicked my balls with my middle finger. That woke me right on up.

I said, “Brother, our country is
always
falling apart.”

He said, “Not like this.” And then he went on to tell me about the hundreds of crystal meth fires, and the suicide cults, and the Blue Spew—which was particularly horrifying, because, well, suffice it to say that the thought of blue crap coming out of my private parts was particularly unappetizing—and the zombies.

I said, “Wait a minute, zombies?”

He said, “Yeah. But nobody’s reporting that on the real news. You can’t hardly find stuff online about it anymore. Somebody somewhere shut that shit right on down.” And then he giggled again. Not sure why. This wasn’t the least bit humorous. He said, “Maybe because nobody believes it.”

I told him, “I believe it. I saw one of them.”

He said, “You
did?!
” He sounded almost happy about it.

I said, “Yep. Up close and personal, even.”

He said, “Tell me about it, Mr. Hoopster.”

I said, “No way, Dude. No. Fucking. Way.” I wasn’t ready to relive that moment yet, especially with a salami-smelling giggler like him.

He said, “You aren’t alone, Toeb. Thousands of people see zombie attacks, and only a few have discussed it. Personally, I don’t get it. Me, if I saw one of those rotters, I’d take a million pictures, secure a million URLs, and put it right up online for the world to see, and whenever one of my websites got shut down, I’d put another one right on up. It’d be … beautiful.”

I stood up, walked over to the front door, and took a peek at Gary’s corpse. He was turning into mulch before my eyes. The EMTs were gone. I said, “It would most definitely
not
be beautiful.”

McGee said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

I said, “Unless the beholder is a moron. Now, why the hell are you calling?”

He said, “Oh. Right. That’s the important thing.” Again:
giggle, giggle, giggle
. Moron. He continued. “You might want to know that the Game is all your fault.”

Tracking down Tobe’s number was easier than I thought; I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. Once in a rare while, my limited power as a film critic in a tertiary market is of use. Once in a
rare
while.

I wanted to call Tobe first thing in the morning, but Janine said, “No. No way. You call him now. If you don’t call him now, you’ll wuss out and come up with a zillion excuses.”

I said, “Why the rush? What’s the big deal if I
do
put it off?”

She walked over to me, put a gentle hand on my cheek, and said, “Nobody’s talking about it
for real
. Nobody’s
questioning
. Everybody’s just letting it happen. Maybe Tobe knows somebody who’ll have some ideas, and maybe that person will know somebody, and that person will know ten somebodies, and we can get some answers.”

I said, “What if there aren’t any answers?

She said, “Erick, it’s a goddamn phone call.” She grabbed my cell from the top of my amplifier, threw it at my chest, and said, “Make it.”

I checked my watch and told her, “It’s three in the morning here, which means it’s one in the morning in California.
Ten o’clock is the cutoff time for nighttime phone calls. Everybody knows that.”

The entire room hammered at me for probably another half an hour:
What have you got to lose?… What’s the big deal?… It’ll be cool … Maybe he knows something you don’t … Who the hell else do you know that can look at this from a slanted angle?… What have you got to lose?… What have you got to lose?…

They wore me down. Finally, just to shut them the hell up, I dialed.

Right as Dude McGee was going to tell me how I, Tobe Hooper—or, in his little salami mind, Toeb Hoopster—personally had shredded the fabric of America, my call waiting beeped in.

Another post-midnight caller. For the love of God.

I told Dude to hold on and jabbed the star button to find out who it was. I said, “Yeah?”

“Tobe?”

“Yeah?”

“My name is Erick Laughlin. We met at the
Destiny Express
screening. I don’t know if you remember me.”

I said, “Yeah. Listen, I have to be honest, brother: I don’t really recall
most
of that night.” That was only partly true. There was one thing I remembered: that chick who kissed me. My Lord. I got hot just thinking about it.

He said, “That’s okay. So listen, I know it’s late, and I’m sure I woke you up—”

“My night’s sleep went out the window when I shot one of my oldest friends in the brain,” I said.

He laughed and said, “Yeah, um, sure, um, right.” Of course he thought I was kidding. Who wouldn’t have? I’m Chainsaw Boy.

I said, “Listen, man, can I buzz you back? I’m on another call.”

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He said, “At
this
hour?”

I said,
“You
called me at this hour.”

He said, “Ah. Right. Good point. So in an hour?”

I said, “Sure, an hour. But listen, why’re you calling anyhow?”

He said, “I wanted to talk about … well … it’s weird.”

I said, “Brother, ‘
weird
’ is my middle name. What’s the deal?”

He said, “My girlfriend thinks you might offer us some insight into the Game.”

I said, “Funny you mention that, Erick. Apparently I’m about thirty seconds away from having some insight.”

He said, “Apparently?”

I said, “Yeah. Got to run.” Then I clicked back to McGee. “So. Mr. McGee. You were about to tell me how I destroyed the world.”

Dude said, “I was.”

I said, “Details, please.”

He said, “Okay. Remember that movie you did?
Destiny Express
?”

I said, “Vaguely.” All sarcastic-like.

He said, “That was Ground Zero. That was the birth. That was the rebirth. That was the afterbirth. That was the launching pad. That was—”

I had a hunch that little freak could’ve gone on all night with the metaphors, so I finally interrupted him. I said, again,
“Details, please.
”

He said, “It started there, To
-beeeeee
. If you work your way backward, you can trace it to that screening. Everything. The Chicago suicide bomber was there. I think the Blue Spew started there—and you’re lucky you didn’t catch it, from what I understand. And Scary Barry was there—”

I said, “Scary Barry?”

He said, “The first of the meth arsonists.”
Meth arsonists
. Jesus Christ suntanning on a cross. He continued. “I’m pretty sure the suicide cult started there, but I can’t prove that for sure. Quite the impressive flick, To-beeeeee. Go online and see what havoc you hath wrought.”

I said, “Mr. McGee, this is intriguing and all, but I think you’re utterly full of shit.” And I did. But the fact that Erick called gave me a bit of pause, so I said, “I do have a few questions.”

He said, “I can imagine you do. What say I drive up to L.A. and we have a chin-wag? Put our heads together. Smash our heads together. Bash our heads together. Togetherness is what it’s all about. Togetherness is the buzzword. Togetherness can make this country whole again. Together, we can fix this. Together, we can save the world. How’d you like to save the world, Mr. Tony Hoobler?

Tony Hoobler?
Seriously
? I said, “I tried to save the world in the sixties. Didn’t work. May as well give it another shot.”

He said, “That’s the spirit. Jerry’s Deli at noon tomorrow?”

I said, “I’ll be counting down the seconds.” And then I hung up, went upstairs, put on some clothes, and went about the business of burying what was left of my pal. All that other shit—specifically, the dead cops—that would be somebody else’s problem. After I did my business, I was gonna blow the scene. I didn’t know where I’d go, and I didn’t know how I’d get there without getting stopped
some
where by
some
cop, but that’s the way it was gonna go down,
period
.

Turned out the cops didn’t give a good goddamn about me, but as I found out later, they
couldn’t
give a good goddamn about me, because Hell-Lay was a bastion of fucked-up-ed-ness. My guess is that the paramedics filled them in, and since the situation had, shall we say, resolved itself, they left it alone. And that’s probably why I never heard a single “official” word about Gary
Church. And you make sure you tell your readers that I’m doing finger quotes around “official.”

Tobe called me back two minutes before I was going to call him.

The first thing I asked him was, “How’d you get my number?”

He said, “I star-sixty-nined you, man. Hope your girlfriend doesn’t take that the wrong way. She’s probably the only one who wants to sixty-nine you.”

I laughed and said, “So, about this Game business …”

He said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow at lunch. There’s a six o’clock flight from Austin to L.A. Spell your name out for me.”

I said, “Why?”

He said, “Because I’m putting you on it.”

I again said, “Why?”

He said, “Because I don’t want to meet with that little freak on my own.”

I said, “What little freak?”

He said, “Dude McGee.”

I said, “You’re meeting with that
moron
?”

Tobe sighed, then said, “Yeah.
That
moron.”

I said, “Why?”

Tobe said, “He thinks I’m the bad guy. He thinks I’m the villain. And I need to make sure he’s wrong.”

Jerry’s was the ideal place to meet McGee, because his bologna BO would be less noticeable in a room filled with deli meat.

McGee was waiting for me when I showed up—and I was right on time for a change, thank you very much. He gave me a too-enthusiastic handshake, then dived right back into his
monolithic sandwich. He said, with his mouth full of challah, “I hope you don’t mind. I ordered an appetizer.”

I said, “Whatever, man. Finish your food. I don’t want to start rapping about this shit until my backup shows.”

He swallowed—mercifully, because half-chewed food reminds me of a certain nightmarish actor I once worked with, whom I will not name—then said, “Backup?”

I said, “Yeah. Backup. One of the kids who was at the screening. Far as I know, he doesn’t have the Blue Spew or anything.”

Dude said, “Might you be talking about Erick Laughlin? Erick Laugh-In? Erick Laughing Boy? Erick Idle? Erick’s Idol? Erick—”

I interrupted him. “Yeah. That guy. How’d you know?”

He said, “I just do.”

I said, “You just do?”

He said, “Erick lives where I live. I live where Erick lives. Us Texans, we know what’s happening with our own.”

I said, “I’m a Texan, and I don’t know a goddamn thing about any of you whack jobs.”

He said, “Oh, but you will, Mr. Hooker.”

Until Erick wandered in twenty minutes later, the only sound that could be heard at our table was that of Dude McGee murdering two sandwiches. My appetite went right into the shitter, as you can imagine.

The positivity of seeing Tobe Hooper was nearly offset by the negativity of seeing Dude McGee.

Before I could even shake Tobe’s hand, Dude said,
“You
know about the Game, don’t you, Erick Laughing Boy? An oh-so-connected newsie such as yourself is in touch with the outside world, isn’t he?” This was all said with max sarcasm.

My hands automatically closed into fists. Steam must’ve been
coming out of my ears, because Tobe touched me on the forearm and said, “I know what you want to do, brother, and I’m telling you not to do it. Too many witnesses. It’s not worth it.”

I said, “I’m cool, Tobe. Thanks.” Then I said to Dude, “Yes, McGee, I know about the Game.”

Dude said, “Of course you do. Have you caught a dose? Do you have the Blue Spew? Are you a stinking, rotting zombie?”

No way I was telling that stink bomb about the 9:33 business. I said, “I’m good. My girlfriend was attacked by an old boyfriend, and she thinks he might’ve been in an, um,
altered state
when it happened, but I don’t know about that.”

Dude said, “Ah. Yes. David Cranberry.”

I said, “Cranford.”

Dude said, “Right. Cranberry. Another man who rode the
Destiny Express.
”

Tobe said, “What do you mean ’rode the
Destiny Express
’?”

Dude said, “He was there. He was in the house. He was, as the kids say, in the heezay.”

Tobe polished off a glass of water in one gulp and said, “McGee, you’d better start making sense, or me and Erick here are going to make ourselves scarce. So talk. But swallow your lunch first.”

I said, “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Dude actually looked hurt. He said, “You guys are mean. I bet you were both bullies in high school.”

Tobe said, “I wasn’t. But you would’ve made me one. Now … please … fucking … 
talk!
”

Dude cleared his throat, lifted his arms above his head and brought them back down as if he was doing a sun salutation, then said, “That movie of yours,
To-beeeeee
. That was quite an impressive film. It was an amateurish piece of celluloid dung, of course—”

Tobe mumbled, “Yeah, I know.”

Dude went on. “—but impressive nonetheless. I haven’t seen it all the way through, which is why I’m here today. Because I
suspect if I had seen it, if I’d have watched it from beginning to end, I’d be … 
susceptible.
”

I asked, “Susceptible to what?”

He said, “Laughing Boy,
Destiny Express
started the Game.”

I said, “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

Tobe said, “Give me a fucking break, both of you.” He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

I said, “Let’s hear him out.” Naturally, I thought about that horrible video of me zipping through who-knows-where with those red dots shooting out of my stomach, or my chest, or wherever. Was
that
the Game? Did I spread the Game? Did somebody blow up a building because of me? Did Dave Cranford beat the crap out of Janine because of me?
Fuck
. I asked Dude, “Okay, why do you think a movie started this whole thing?”