Tag Archives: parody

“Miserable” Ch. II

22 Jan

When we last left our hero he’d been kidnapped by a crazed fan after his car crashed near her rural property. Her name is Sandra Cullen. His name is “Iron” Kyle Irion. She has expressed a mad desire for Iron Kyle to write another blog entry including author Stephen King, whom she believes to be be a fictional character of Kyle’s creation.

I sit slumped on the bed. Eyes open, but not a glimmer of life left in them. I appear as I always have, but with a certain spark removed. I resemble a statue of my former self. Bloodrayne has just ran through its final round of credits.

The deep, rhythmic sound of footsteps approaches the bedroom door. Sandra appears.

“Are you rethinking my proposition?” She asks, lifting the remote and toggling to the “Play Movie” option on the home screen.

“YES!” My body jerks forward against the leather straps holding me to the bed. “YES, I’ll do whatever you want–just don’t make me watch that movie again!”

“Good.” She picks up the laptop, sets it on the TV tray and brings it to me. She then straps my hands to the tray’s sides. My WordPress account is still up. I go to my Twitter. (@localpolice I’ve been kidnapped. Sucks. Send help?)

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get started right away, but Sandra, can I ask you a personal favor? I mean I’d only ask this of someone who really understands my needs as a writer.”

“Oh!” she exults “I’d love to help! What can I do?”

“I could really use some…well, some writing juice.”

She looks at me, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Whiskey. Bring me some whiskey.”

“Well, all right–if you think that’ll help.”

“That’s right. It would really get this blog churning–get this blog burning–get this blog…something else. Let’s get me drunk!” I start to do the cabbage patch, but once Sandra starts to mirror me, I gag and have to stop.

“I’ll go get it right away!” She leaves, locks the door, and in a moment, I see the car pulling out down the snowy driveway and into the street.

“Here’s my chance!” I yell. I try my hardest to do a mild victory dance, but dancing while being strapped down is difficult. That’s why that paraplegic guy got kicked out of *N Sync so fast. I look around for a way to take advantage of my privacy, but quickly find none. “Well now what do I do?” I ask.

“If only you could go get a knife from the other room. There’s one in the kitchen. You could hide it under your bed so when Sandra comes to check on you you can stab her or something,” Aquaman says. [Editor’s Note: Wait, where the hell did Aquaman come from? You can’t just insert characters like that.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh yea?] [Editor’s Note: God. Please don’t make this a thing.]

Out of nowhere, Stephen King appears. [Editor’s Note: Are you serious?] He’s wearing a big red cape that has says “$tephen King.” He’s totally awesome. [Editor’s Note: You really just don’t care anymore, do you?]

“Hello, Kyle.” Stephen says.

“Hey, Stevie. You wanna help me out? Could you pop these straps off?”

Stephen looks at me, smiles, then does something creepy that I can’t quite remember. I then climb on his back and he carries me away to my home.

As Stephen flies away, I wave goodbye from the ground, a single tear running down my cheek.

“I’ll miss you Stephen!” I yell from the ground.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back on Christmas d–” Just at that moment, Stephen runs into a low-flying bird. He says a bad word and departs forever.

I’ll never forget my friend Stephen King–and how badly I butchered his classic story of Misery.

“Miserable.” Chapter I

20 Jan

December 24, 2009

I drive my car to my friend, Wesley’s, house. I’m going a bit slower because of the ice. As I make a turn, though, I hit a particularly treacherous patch of ice and veer off the road. My car flips sideways up the road, then onto its back, then up a tree, then back down a tree, then into a river, then out of a river, then to a giant car shaped towel, then into a rock wall. I’m knocked unconscious.

I wake up being drug by a large, matronly-looking human, wrapped from head to toe in layers of winter clothing. It’s like that time my laundry got so dirty that it gained sentience and drug me to the laundromat to put it out of its misery. Concussed and nearing delirium, I close my eyes and fall to nothing once again.

I am taken to an old farm house in the middle of a snow-covered forest. I lay, bound, in what looks to have the falsely lived-in look of a guest bedroom. The inside of the house smells of antique furniture and the stiff, musky smell of an aged home.

“What smells like this much poop and this much doily?” I ask, moving my hands from a position far apart, then to one closer together.

“Oh! You’re awake!” A voice calls from down the corridor. A series of approaching footsteps soon follow. Momentarily, a large, moon-faced woman with a build like a refrigerator and the hair of a sixties house wife stands at the door. “Iron Kyle! I’m so glad you’re here!”

I attempt to rise up to make sex to this woman (as is my customary greeting when someone calls me by my internet name), but I’m strapped to the bed by a series of leather straps.

“What is this?!” I yell, struggling against my restraints.

“That’s just to keep you still while you’re healing. You got some pretty nasty injuries, Iron Kyle.” The woman has not moved from the doorway, as if she’s afraid of getting to close. She has a strange look on her face–a smile laced with a kind of bashful fear–she’s star struck.

I once again try to get out of the bed to pour my sex all over this mysterious maiden (as is my customary response when I star-strike someone), but the restraints halt my advance. “…I just need to find a w…I need to free my wiener…” I mumble to myself, surveying the straps.

“Iron Kyle,” the woman says, stepping into the room for the first time, “My name is Sandra Cullen.”

“Are you Edward’s mom?” I turn and wink at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Wait, is this a blog or a screenplay? What camera? Please specify.]

Sandra looks confused. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been married. Never really been with a man, either.”

I give this woman a strange look. I struggle to get my hands close enough together to do a penetrating motion with my right finger and my left fist, then ask “‘Been with’ like this?”

She blushes. “Iron Kyle, you embarrass me!”

“I embarrass a lot of people,” I say, winking smugly at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Stop it.] A bit of dribble runs down my chin.

She’s walks to a small desk by the room’s only window, her back to me. She begins fiddling with something, then says “Iron Kyle, I have a confession to make. I am your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your blogs four or five times at least, I’ve read all your short stories, I went to see your play performed, and I have on my iPod all the music you ever wrote. Remember all those mornings when you came out to find your car mysteriously washed clean? That was me!”

“That was you?”

“Yea–,” she says, turning bright red and swaying girlishly.

“You know it’s breaking and entering when you smash the window of my garage to do that, right?”

She stands silent.

“I’m actually going to need some contact information for you. Those windows are really expensive and I–”

“SHUT UP!” She yells. “You shut your mouth!” Her demeanor is a mix of anger and severe disappointment. “I’ve heard that you artist/writer types can be egotistical little divas, but I never expected you to be like this!”

“Really? I kind of feel like that’s my most prominent personality trait.”

“I said shut up!” She steps forward and reveals what she’d been fiddling with at the desk: a syringe. She drives the needle into my neck and after a biting moment of pain, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, she’s craned my bed up so I’m in a sitting position. Sandra has also put a tray across my lap, which my hands are strapped to. There is a laptop on the tray, positioned just so my hands can reach the keyboard. My WordPress account is on the homepage.

“I brought you a computer so you could write! You can write more of your blogs!” Sandra says from the foot of my bad. She’s clasping her hands tightly together. She looks like a gigantic child on fair day.

I’m still struggling into the waking world, my words still garbled.

“No, no, Iron Kyle. It’s all forgiven,” she interrupts. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I want you to do me a favor, though.”

“What is it?” I ask. Sandra then steps forward and places a clammy, chubby hand on my arm.

“Well,” she’s now smiling with a nervous and expectant grin. “I’d like you to write a blog for me. I want you to do one with your friend Stephen King in it. I just love his character.”

“Character?” I ask. “Stephen King isn’t a character, Sandra. He’s a real human being.

She looks at me, confused, then stomps out of the room. I hear a childish, fitting scream from the hallway. A few seconds of silence follow, and when she enters again, red rings of moisture around her eyes.

“Put Stephen King in another blog.” She seems stolid and cold for a moment, then melts and returns to her false, bubbly self. “I miss him so much! He’s my favorite character!”

“HE ISN’T A CHARACTER!” I yell back. Sandra’s smile disappears and from her apron, she removes a copy of Bloodrayne.

“What uh…what are you going to do with that?” I ask. A pit of nerves opens in my stomach and a flash, somehow both hot and cold, runs over my body.

“We’re going to watch a movie. We’re going to watch a movie until you appreciate all I’ve done for you!” Sandra unplugs the laptop and moves it to a table across the room.

The TV is located at the foot of the bed on small chest of drawers. The DVD player sits atop the set like some foreboding king or seer.

“Don’t put that DVD in there, Sandra,” I say. “Don’t you do it!”

“OHHHHH yea!” She says.

“Why don’t you–” I start, but then she does a few pelvic thrusts, then something with her hands, and my protests are completely derailed. I stutter a few times then just stop talking.

Bloodrayne begins.

To be continued.

(Source Material)

My Screenplay for Sherlock Holmes 2

30 Dec

[Scene opens with Holmes, played by Kyle Irion, sitting in a large, cushioned, leather chair. His right leg is crossed over his left. He is smoking a pipe. There is weed in the pipe. Holmes is high as balls.]

(Enter Watson, played by Zach Galifianakis)

Watson:

Holmes! Holmes! There’s been a MURDER!

(Watson looks concerned. Holmes looks asleep. Holmes has fallen asleep.)

Holmes! Wake up!

Holmes: (Waking up, startled.)

What then? Bally hoo! (Accent begins to transform from British to an overly exaggerated Australian.)

I was asleep on the barbee. You know then, Watson. One begins with a bit of the devil grass and then you end up with that old moosha moosha. (Accent is now a horrifically inaccurate Swedish. The sound can be likened to the Swedish Chef from The Muppets.)

Watson: (Steps back, surprise quickly changing to concern.)

Holmes, are you feeling all right?

Holmes: (Once again British)

Why yes, dear Watson, absolutely flibble. (Holmes is making up words.) I feel as healthy as an ox. Now, tell me of the details of this murder.

Watson:

Well, Lord Vandermill, a businessman and well-respected member of parliament, was found dead this morning with a large, metal stake driven through his heart. They believe the murder was political.

Holmes: (Now wearing Iron Man armor.)

I guess Lord Vandermill won’t be up for re-election any time soon. (Holmes breaks very basic film and television rule and looks directly into the camera, winking. Director can be heard telling him to stop because he’s embarrassing himself.)

(Watson, now played by former presidential candidate Ron Paul, nods politely at Holmes’ joke.)

Watson, take this down. Take a note. Note this. “Sherlock Holmes to take on new mystery. Sherlock Holmes to wear snappy new hat.” Then tell them what my hat looks like. (Holmes is wearing Green Bay Packers Cheese Head with several feathers attached. A picture of “Lost” cast-member Matthew Fox is taped to the front.) I’ll continue. “Sherlock Holmes vows to find politicians’ murderer. Says that if he cannot, he will sacrifice his dearest friend, Watson, to the prison system in lieu for the missing murderer.”

Watson: (Stops writing, looks at Holmes incredulously.)

What is the meaning of this? Why are you sending me to prison instead? Why even make a promise like that?

Holmes:

Well, you see Watson, you–

Watson:

Why am I writing this down in the first place? Who am I supposed to give this to?

Holmes:

Oh you’ll see. You’ll see. (Holmes turns and winks at camera. As camera cuts away, Director can be heard screaming, angrily.)

[Holmes and Watson now walk through a crowded London street. Ebenezer Scrooge is there. So is Doctor Who. Mr. Bean sells them a bagel. After a brief musical number about England, tea, or rain or whatever, Holmes and Watson reach Lord Vandermill’s estate. Vandermill’s body is still resting on his desk, metal stake lodged in his chest. Holmes moves Vandermill’s hands so they rest behind his head.]

Holmes:

There. Now he looks more comfortable.

Watson: (Now played by Hugh Laurie because Ron Paul decided to go and die.)

Sir, perhaps we shouldn’t disturb the crime scene. (Moves hands back to original position. Inspector LeStrade enters.)

Lestrade:

Dr. Watson, please don’t disturb the body. (Moves hands back behind Vandermill’s head.) You should know better than that. (Turning to address Holmes.) Any clues?

Holmes:

Only one. On Vandermill’s coat. A very faint hand print. A hand print made of flour. Baker’s flour.

Lestrade:

So old man Tilbolt, the baker down the street must have some involvement?

Holmes:

Perhaps. Vandermill was on the cusp of pushing a bill through parliament that would have raised the price of domestically produced flour by two sheckles a gallon. (Watson and LeStrade look to each other, both knowing these quantities are completely inaccurate. Holmes is, at times, a fantastic idiot.)

Watson: (To LeStrade)

Holmes is, at times, a fantastic idiot.

Holmes:

I heard that.

(Watson looks directly at Holmes, unfazed, and leaves the office. Holmes follows after.)

[At old man Tilbolt’s bakery]

Holmes:

You’ve been caught white handed, Tilbolt.

Tilbolt:

(Stupidly, like a stupid peasant.) Caught at what, my lord?

Holmes:

The murder of Lord Vandermill! Admit it. It’s too late now.

Tilbolt:

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been here all day. I slept here last night because I’ve lost several barrels of my flour to thieves who come here in the night. Mos’ likely because of fear of the new law Lord Vandermill is proposin’ in parliament.

Watson: (Whispering to Holmes)

That means Vandermill could have been murdered by one of the flour thieves!

Holmes:

What? Really? (Sighs heavily, head hanging low.) Jesus. Okay, we’ll be back later, Tilbolt. Please, please don’t kill anybody. Please. I don’t know if I could handle doing another stupid investigation.

[Montage of Holmes and Watson investigating the murder through a series of cunning scientific and deductive techniques. Holmes is so smart. He’s awesome. Three or four times during the montage, Watson turns to Holmes and can be seen mouthing “You are so awesome.” Holmes and Watson shake down a number of possible thieves before ending up back at Vandermills home’s personal bakery.]

Holmes: (Now speaking to Vandermill’s personal baker, Frontworth]

So, Frontworth. I see that some of your barrels don’t quite match.

Frontworth:

How so?

(Closeup reveals beads of sweat forming on Frontworths brow. Use brow-double. Frontworth is ugly. Antonio Banderas’ brow is shown.)

Holmes:

Well, some of them are contained in fine, well constructed barrels, like the flour that would be purchased by a Lord, from the finest reaches of the globe.

(Briefly surveys the barrels)

But these others, they seem shoddy, common–like the barrels you’d find in a regular old bakery. The very same bakery they were stolen from. The flour from which was on your hands when you–

(Frontworth totally loses it. Goes bat shit crazy. Frontworth pulls out a roller and tries to strike Holmes with it. Holmes ducks and Watson hits Frontworth on the head with his cane. LeStrade enters.]

Lestrade:

Well Holmes, it seems you’ve solved the murder with impossible logic, extraordinary cunning, and barrels and barrels of pseudo-erotic hand gestures.

Holmes:

Oops, I did it again. (Holmes looks into camera as Britney Spears’ “Oops I Did it Again” begins to play. Winks at camera. Directors megaphone is briefly seen coming from behind the camera when credits roll.)

The End.

The Highway.

26 Dec

They marched slowly, one with the cart tightly clutched in wrapped hands, the other with nothing clutched at all. The air was acrid and bitterly cold. The cold was, for that moment, the only thing either of them could be completely sure of. Survival? No. The very world before their wandering feet? Not even that, for with the falling snow all the world was a sea of whiteness. A fog of moving parts. Impossible.

Lanny and Kyle were careful.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Lanny asked.

“I’m writing my best friend’s name in the snow.”

Kyle was urinating.

“Jesus, is this the ‘great important, life-saving thing’ we had to stop for?'”

“Yes,” Kyle said, zipping his pants and returning to the highway. “I only got the ‘L’. Sorry.”

Lanny sighed and pulled the drawstrings of his hood. “It’s all right.”

They continued to move with an almost instinctual mindlessness, like infant turtles, just born, clawing, for whatever reason, toward the moving water.

“What do you have in your pack?” Lanny asked. They were hungry.

“I have, a can of…” Kyle looked through his bag. “I have three Hustlers and a book about cats.”

Lanny shook his head, as if to shake the words, and perhaps the truth of the words, from his head.

“You have what? Where is all the food? Where is all the food I gave you?

“I threw it at those dogs. Remember the str–”

“Yes, I remember the stray dogs. I remember you yelling things to them. You yelled–”

“–Neener neener, who’s got the biggest wiener, stupid snow-covered dogs?!” Kyle laughed to himself, holding his gut. To Lanny, the solitary sound of Kyle’s high-pitched, puerile laughter sounded almost sinister. Lanny shuddered against it.

“Listen. We’re not going to survive all the way to Denton if you don’t start taking better care of your supplies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, papa.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What did you call me?”

“Papa.”

“I’m not your dad.”

“I’m not your dad.”

“All right?” Lanny said, confused, waiting for Kyle’s next words to somehow make sense of all this.

“Crap, look at the time! I gotta get going!” Kyle looked blankly at Lanny for a moment, then rolled over and began reading his Hustler. Somewhere in the dark, an animal yelped and then was stifled. Its last, struggling breath heard by two ardent travelers, almost invisible in the coming night.

The next day, Lanny woke at dawn. He set up the small stove, placed the metal cooking plate above the flame and began to make breakfast. Keeping the fire alive was difficult. The wind whipped aggressively over Lanny’s huddled frame and the fire likewise. However difficult, Lanny kept the fire alive.

“Is it time to eat middly-mo-bye-eat?” Kyle asked, his eyes the only thing visible through his hood.

“Why do you keep doing that? Why do you keep talking like that?”

“Because I’m slowly losing my mind.”

Lanny sat silent.

“Because I’m slowly losing my mind looking at your stupid, shitty beard.”

Lanny sighed and made Kyle a plate of beans.

“I love beans,” Kyle said.

“So do I,” Lanny said.

Squatting together around the still-lit stove, there, for a moment, was a tranquil silence.

“Lanny?” Kyle said, breaching the quiet that was.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever miss things?”

“Miss things?”

“Yea, miss things. From the past. From before–” Kyle looked around, as if to motion at the very world around them, “–before all of this.”

Lanny smiled to himself and did not meet Kyle’s eyes. Although his body rested firmly in the bit of snow Kyle saw him in, his mind and his heart had traveled far from this place. “Yes, I do. I miss lightly moving the hair from my wife’s face as she sleeps. I miss the look of the world when I wake up–bright and shimmering–full of life–as if somehow, overnight, god reached down and started it all over again. That’s what I miss. What do you miss?”

“I miss boobs.”

Lanny looked at Kyle, waiting for more.

“Boobs and Jersey Shore.”

Lanny put his hand on his shoulder. Kyle was crying.

From his whimpering voice, Lanny could hear Kyle saying “I just don’t understand why Pauly D would…” He struggled, his voice trembled with weeping. “Why he would let Mike, ‘The Situation,’ down like that. Why he wouldn’t take the…why he wouldn’t take the ugly girl away so Situation could get his…”

“His what?” Lanny asked.

“His sex on. So Situation could get his sex all over that woman.”

For the second time in as many days, Lanny shook his head and wished to be ridden of the words Kyle had spent on him.

The road to Denton was long and cold. The surface of the road itself had long been buried in a layer of white–a layer now so thick that the footsteps of the two weary journeymen could no longer penetrate deep enough to reveal its blackness.

They continued.

It was important in those times to remain warm, but more important to remain dry. Wetness could cause frost-bite faster than anything else. It could cause hypothermia and pneumonia. They stayed dry mostly through Lanny’s efforts. Kyle cared little for staying dry. He loved splash fights.

“Let’s go splash each other!” Kyle yelled, running toward the Trinity River.

“Jesus, no!” Lanny yelled, stumbling after him. The snow was high now, and its slick bottom caused Lanny to lose his footing. Kyle moved through the snow adeptly, as if he had been born in a world that knew no other kind of ground than this.

Kyle got close to the Trinity River and stopped. “Smells like doo doo,” Kyle said, his face contorted in a frown.

Lanny, breathless, got to his feet. “I know it does,” Lanny said. “I know it does.”

At nightfall, with no moon and no stars, as there had been no sun in the day, they slept. Sometimes a fire would be made. Lanny feared being spotted by the bands of marauders and road agents that marched the road at night–hunting.

This night Lanny laid as he always did–silently, wrapped in a tarp. Kyle lay next to him in similar fashion.

“Lanny?” Kyle beckoned, barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” Lanny answered.

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

“Will we always be cold?”

“No.”

“I made a snow man.”

“That’s good.”

“He has a wiener,” Kyle said.

“That’s good. All men should have wieners.”

“He needed clothes, though, because it’s cold out, and I didn’t have any spares, so I put the rest of your clothes on the snow man.”

“What?! Why?”

“It’s cold.”

Lanny left Kyle under the overpass that night.

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