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vanitashazeSo, about eight months ago, I began this tradition of bad-movie-watching with my friend. We go to the crap theatre at Ballston - it's on the Metro line - and buy kid's matinee tickets at the machine, so we're in there for about six bucks each, buy enough Skittles to eat and throw at the screen, and spend the whole afternoon bickering and watching bad movie after bad movie, and argue about which one is the most awful. It's great fun. But the reason I brought it up was that the movie that started this whole tradition was a shoot-em-up called Street Kings, and it's now out on DVD.
Do not get me wrong: this is possibly one of the worst movies ever. It reinforces every racial, ethnic, economic, and gender stereotype that exists. Hugh Laurie is brilliant but criminally misplaced - it's as if they just decided to drop Dr. House in there for no reason whatsoever - and Keanu Reeves looks and acts like they stole him out of the big display window at Macy's. The only saving grace is Officer Disco, played by Chris Evans, and his tentative chemistry with Ludlow (Reeves). And I will say this, because I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to see this movie in any other context than drunk night: he dies. Woo-hoo. Big spoiler, except, not really.
And despite all that, I ended up writing a bit of fic for them. Do I know why? No. Best guess, I felt like entertaining my Id. Maybe a little of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
guede_mazaka's influence in there too. Because, again, big spoiler: it's a little fucked up. But I'm cleaning out my hard drive in preparation for The Biggest Damn History Paper Ever Written (otherwise known as How Jack Kerouac Is a Gay Misogynist Ass), and I found this, and I figure, hell, it's the week before the Christmas Rush, everyone needs a bit of anger in their lives.
Especially those working in retail.
end titles for a film
tom / grace, tom / disco
street kings; r-whateva. warnings for spoilers, sex, death, and the over-overuse of the word "fuck".
In a black hole with a bullet in your chest, you would bleed blue. Grace told you this. Not the bullet but the black hole - veins compressing, the oxygen spiraling into nothingness - and fucker, she says, I bet you'd enjoy it. You don't tell her (you don't tell her anything) but she's right, your heart is seventy-eight% water and keeps beating for the chance to stop. You love that edge you get, like standing on the edge of a building, hundred-story monster or the fucking empire state building, god you don't know but the treads in your boots are grasping the swaying platform with tiny rubber hands or pores or whatever shit, suction cups, lips, your boots are kissing the cold stone edge and there's a guy above you saying hold on, man, hold on, don't you die on me while you're running your fingers through low-flying clouds like you run them through her hair. The sky is bright, so bright it's blinding, you can't see but you know what's there is orange and red and yellow, lovely heroin and blood and piss; the clouds are white like handfuls of columbia pure someone tossed in the air and then a thousand and one volts of electricity run through your heart, voltage breaking down the door of every cell in your body and ten thousand automatics go off inside your chest and the paramedic's above you saying, you fucking idiot, you fucking cop.
Yeah, you love it alright. You'd fuck it if you could but you can't, so you flirt with it instead.
*
Why you look so surprised all the time, huh? She's demanding something again, you don't know what but it's not like you care. You love Grace like you love your gun; it'd be a lot fucking harder without it/her, she/it's good for you. Very good. Her mouth hangs above you, gaping like a gunshot wound and you want to bite it. Why you look so surprised, you know what's coming every day. You fuck you shoot you drink and take stupid stupid risks. Bite bite bite. Your teeth ache with need. Mouth mind pussy, your darling Grace is a collage of raw wounds and someday you will love her to death.
What if I wanna come home to a boyfriend who I know ain't in a body bag today, huh?
Wanna fuck, you try to say, but it comes out mixed up, mashed together like a car crash victim with one side of the words where they aren't supposed to be and shards of broken glass cut & shining in the corners.
You're hopeless, she says.
Your mouth tastes like morgue disinfectant from the vodka. Bite bite bite. You wanna be dead, darlin? I'll clean out those wounds for you.
I don't have hope, you agree. I got Grace.
*
Married? You asked. Nice kid, clean-shaven, seems the type.
Engaged. He grips the side of the car like your wife did, when you drove too fast. You wonder if he'll be fucked over, someday; you wonder if it will be you doing it. Heroin blood piss, you love it like a bride but that sky isn't for everyone. And I'd like to see her again.
(Later, shoot to kill. You know he would want you to.)
*
You've just finished with the latest complaint, the one with the hoop earrings and voice like a sliding door. Cookie jar, she said, something about the cookie jar. Everyone's heard of it by now; word gets around fast, and nobody here is above trying to play the angle. Not that anything will be done about it, of course. The official policy of internal affairs is to record all complaints and then use them to light their cigarettes, wipe their asses if the toilet paper's low. It's not like they could do anything, you know they can't give out money to every junkie that walks in the door, and anyone who could confirm statements is dead. You saw to that.
Next one up. Got a complaint? you ask without looking.
Yeah, he says. You got me killed, you asshole.
He hasn't changed one bit - bristled hair, dip at the collar, eyes all fuck-me brown and bloodstain necklace across his neck. No more rest-in-peace posing, though; his red-splattered fingers are tapping an unhappy tattoo against your computer monitor.
You're not real, you say, quietly, so that the others do not see you talking to an empty chair. Fuck you, you're not real.
He shrugs. You're the one that breaks all the rules, cop-killer. You really think you got an exception for this one?
Your dick twitches. Disco's even more beautiful dead than when alive; your girl may be made of open wounds but nothing could compare to this. God, you want to fuck this spirit over the desk, and that's how you know you've finally cracked.
I'm insane, you say. I'm insane and you're not real.
He shrugs, again; he has not met your eyes since his first sentence, and is instead preoccupied with cleaning his nails. Dead and Disco's suddenly so fucking cavalier. It rankles. Never stopped you before, cop-killer. Not like it's gonna stop you now.
And it doesn't, not really. When you tumble into your car, five hours later, he's there fumbling with the passenger-side handle; at your apartment, he settles cat-like into your couch. The vodka gets a sour look, the spare gun two. Cop to the end, you say, and he smiles, gives you a policeman's salute. The end, he says, and beyond.
*
And it's just like the booze, the gun: another routine, something else to get used to. You're still spending most of your time toeing that edge; he's still all goddamn gorgeous, earnest and annoying and unable to handle speeds above that of a motor-scooter.
You need a partner, Biggs says, twisting his wedding ring. You want to pop that smug fucker in the face, but Disco's holding your hand and even in a "I'm stopping you from assaulting a superior officer" kind of way, it's still such a fag move you would kill him if he weren't dead already.
No, sir, I do not, you say. Your fingers tighten in Disco's and your gun is cold & comforting at your waistband. I got everything I need.
*
Did you send her flowers? he asks.
Who? It's your third vodka of the hour.
My wife, he tries, and grimaces. My widow. Fiance, girlfriend, whatever. Annie. Did you send her flowers?
No.
You should have. The kid looks out the window, as if he'll find the answer he's looking for written in exhaust fumes. She was a nice girl. I loved her.
You love me now, you try, fingers tapping on the wheel. This is a nice car; you wonder why you haven't totaled it yet.
He laughs, and the sound is somewhat peculiar, rasping and sucking sound of the hole in his throat. I fell in love with your faggot ass the minute I saw you leaning over my corpse. Camaraderie, but cautious, toeing for the line and coming up blind. Happy?
No, you say, and drain another bottle.
He says, Of course not, and then you see your suspect, and it's squeal scream bang bang sunset sky, Disco hanging over your half-moon face and telling you, hold on. And your blood boils and caramelizes with anger; fingers clenching with popping pain, you want to ask him, hold on to what?
fin.
Do not get me wrong: this is possibly one of the worst movies ever. It reinforces every racial, ethnic, economic, and gender stereotype that exists. Hugh Laurie is brilliant but criminally misplaced - it's as if they just decided to drop Dr. House in there for no reason whatsoever - and Keanu Reeves looks and acts like they stole him out of the big display window at Macy's. The only saving grace is Officer Disco, played by Chris Evans, and his tentative chemistry with Ludlow (Reeves). And I will say this, because I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to see this movie in any other context than drunk night: he dies. Woo-hoo. Big spoiler, except, not really.
And despite all that, I ended up writing a bit of fic for them. Do I know why? No. Best guess, I felt like entertaining my Id. Maybe a little of
guede_mazaka's influence in there too. Because, again, big spoiler: it's a little fucked up. But I'm cleaning out my hard drive in preparation for The Biggest Damn History Paper Ever Written (otherwise known as How Jack Kerouac Is a Gay Misogynist Ass), and I found this, and I figure, hell, it's the week before the Christmas Rush, everyone needs a bit of anger in their lives.Especially those working in retail.
end titles for a film
tom / grace, tom / disco
street kings; r-whateva. warnings for spoilers, sex, death, and the over-overuse of the word "fuck".
In a black hole with a bullet in your chest, you would bleed blue. Grace told you this. Not the bullet but the black hole - veins compressing, the oxygen spiraling into nothingness - and fucker, she says, I bet you'd enjoy it. You don't tell her (you don't tell her anything) but she's right, your heart is seventy-eight% water and keeps beating for the chance to stop. You love that edge you get, like standing on the edge of a building, hundred-story monster or the fucking empire state building, god you don't know but the treads in your boots are grasping the swaying platform with tiny rubber hands or pores or whatever shit, suction cups, lips, your boots are kissing the cold stone edge and there's a guy above you saying hold on, man, hold on, don't you die on me while you're running your fingers through low-flying clouds like you run them through her hair. The sky is bright, so bright it's blinding, you can't see but you know what's there is orange and red and yellow, lovely heroin and blood and piss; the clouds are white like handfuls of columbia pure someone tossed in the air and then a thousand and one volts of electricity run through your heart, voltage breaking down the door of every cell in your body and ten thousand automatics go off inside your chest and the paramedic's above you saying, you fucking idiot, you fucking cop.
Yeah, you love it alright. You'd fuck it if you could but you can't, so you flirt with it instead.
*
Why you look so surprised all the time, huh? She's demanding something again, you don't know what but it's not like you care. You love Grace like you love your gun; it'd be a lot fucking harder without it/her, she/it's good for you. Very good. Her mouth hangs above you, gaping like a gunshot wound and you want to bite it. Why you look so surprised, you know what's coming every day. You fuck you shoot you drink and take stupid stupid risks. Bite bite bite. Your teeth ache with need. Mouth mind pussy, your darling Grace is a collage of raw wounds and someday you will love her to death.
What if I wanna come home to a boyfriend who I know ain't in a body bag today, huh?
Wanna fuck, you try to say, but it comes out mixed up, mashed together like a car crash victim with one side of the words where they aren't supposed to be and shards of broken glass cut & shining in the corners.
You're hopeless, she says.
Your mouth tastes like morgue disinfectant from the vodka. Bite bite bite. You wanna be dead, darlin? I'll clean out those wounds for you.
I don't have hope, you agree. I got Grace.
*
Married? You asked. Nice kid, clean-shaven, seems the type.
Engaged. He grips the side of the car like your wife did, when you drove too fast. You wonder if he'll be fucked over, someday; you wonder if it will be you doing it. Heroin blood piss, you love it like a bride but that sky isn't for everyone. And I'd like to see her again.
(Later, shoot to kill. You know he would want you to.)
*
You've just finished with the latest complaint, the one with the hoop earrings and voice like a sliding door. Cookie jar, she said, something about the cookie jar. Everyone's heard of it by now; word gets around fast, and nobody here is above trying to play the angle. Not that anything will be done about it, of course. The official policy of internal affairs is to record all complaints and then use them to light their cigarettes, wipe their asses if the toilet paper's low. It's not like they could do anything, you know they can't give out money to every junkie that walks in the door, and anyone who could confirm statements is dead. You saw to that.
Next one up. Got a complaint? you ask without looking.
Yeah, he says. You got me killed, you asshole.
He hasn't changed one bit - bristled hair, dip at the collar, eyes all fuck-me brown and bloodstain necklace across his neck. No more rest-in-peace posing, though; his red-splattered fingers are tapping an unhappy tattoo against your computer monitor.
You're not real, you say, quietly, so that the others do not see you talking to an empty chair. Fuck you, you're not real.
He shrugs. You're the one that breaks all the rules, cop-killer. You really think you got an exception for this one?
Your dick twitches. Disco's even more beautiful dead than when alive; your girl may be made of open wounds but nothing could compare to this. God, you want to fuck this spirit over the desk, and that's how you know you've finally cracked.
I'm insane, you say. I'm insane and you're not real.
He shrugs, again; he has not met your eyes since his first sentence, and is instead preoccupied with cleaning his nails. Dead and Disco's suddenly so fucking cavalier. It rankles. Never stopped you before, cop-killer. Not like it's gonna stop you now.
And it doesn't, not really. When you tumble into your car, five hours later, he's there fumbling with the passenger-side handle; at your apartment, he settles cat-like into your couch. The vodka gets a sour look, the spare gun two. Cop to the end, you say, and he smiles, gives you a policeman's salute. The end, he says, and beyond.
*
And it's just like the booze, the gun: another routine, something else to get used to. You're still spending most of your time toeing that edge; he's still all goddamn gorgeous, earnest and annoying and unable to handle speeds above that of a motor-scooter.
You need a partner, Biggs says, twisting his wedding ring. You want to pop that smug fucker in the face, but Disco's holding your hand and even in a "I'm stopping you from assaulting a superior officer" kind of way, it's still such a fag move you would kill him if he weren't dead already.
No, sir, I do not, you say. Your fingers tighten in Disco's and your gun is cold & comforting at your waistband. I got everything I need.
*
Did you send her flowers? he asks.
Who? It's your third vodka of the hour.
My wife, he tries, and grimaces. My widow. Fiance, girlfriend, whatever. Annie. Did you send her flowers?
No.
You should have. The kid looks out the window, as if he'll find the answer he's looking for written in exhaust fumes. She was a nice girl. I loved her.
You love me now, you try, fingers tapping on the wheel. This is a nice car; you wonder why you haven't totaled it yet.
He laughs, and the sound is somewhat peculiar, rasping and sucking sound of the hole in his throat. I fell in love with your faggot ass the minute I saw you leaning over my corpse. Camaraderie, but cautious, toeing for the line and coming up blind. Happy?
No, you say, and drain another bottle.
He says, Of course not, and then you see your suspect, and it's squeal scream bang bang sunset sky, Disco hanging over your half-moon face and telling you, hold on. And your blood boils and caramelizes with anger; fingers clenching with popping pain, you want to ask him, hold on to what?
fin.
