Rodrigo Brand | Wild Wild West
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Wild Wild West

So this is the scenario: It’s night and you just came home from an exhausting hot day. Yes, it’s definitely hot, even at night. You put the house keys on the table and you go straight to your bedroom. You feel like taking a shower, but you’re too tired. You drop your body against the bed just for, let’s say, rest a little. It feels good, so you decide to stay there. A quick nap won’t hurt. You roll over and face the ceiling. You have a fan, but the switch is too far away for you to even consider. You take your shoes off using your feet and then you take a deep breath. It does feel good and you let your eyes slowly shut down. As they do, the room blurs. Done. Dark. You take another deep breath and then something happens. In a split of a second, you feel the bed going vertical, which brings you chills. You open your eyes as quickly as you can and you realize the feeling was true – you are standing up, back against the bed in a well-lit empty black room. There is a door. It’s right in front of you. It’s a simple door, but somehow hypnotizing. You decide to go there. You walk suspicious steps wearing the very same clothes you were wearing and your socks. You reach for the knob and open the door. A dim light and smoke come out from the other room. You take some more steps and bump against something. That something seems to be the chest of a huge black man. You look up and yousee the man’s face.  You squeeze your eyes in desbelief when you realize you might be seeing Mr. Michael Clarke Duncan in a black suit. It is him and he looks at you from the top of his height with that mean tough expression you saw so many times in all those Hollywood movies. He reaches into his pocket and takes a black card out of it and handles it to you. You look at the card, it reads “Welcome to Hollywood” in golden letters. Mr. Duncan kindly steps to the side and you are able to see what’s in front of you. It’s sort of a club, you think. A very special club many would die to get in. Right at a front table is the also deceased Mr. David Carradine.  He wears a cowboy outfit. It suits him. Right on the table, an impressive silver Colt .45 Model 1873 single action revolver. You look at his hands and see that, for your surprise, he is meticulously rolling a joint. You then notice a presence in a booth behind him. Two to be more exact. Snoop Dogg, smoking a big one (fuck, that’s where all the smoke in the room is coming from), and a beautiful platinum blonde with pale skin. He passes his joint to her. Yes, it is Marylin Monroe. And yes, she smokes gracefully and smiles even more gracefully. You feel aroused and curious. You look to your left and notices James Dean sleeping with his feet over the table like you have seen before. You look to your right and you see Brad Pitt behind the bar serving a shot of Whiskey to… Roger Rabbit. Wait a minute… Roger f* Rabbit? The cartoon? Shit. He drinks his whiskey in one swag and looks back at you. Yes, it is fucking Roger Rabbit. The fucking cartoon. And right next to him is fucking Jessica Rabbit, as sexy as one can be. She squeezes her tits between her arms and sends you a kiss. Yeah boy, now you have a hard-on. Brad Pitt smiles that unmistakable charming smile of his and presses a button in what it seems to be an old stereo sound.

 

 

Music takes over the place and the room assumes a Tim Burton vibe. A dark Tim Burton. You feel shivers up and down your spine.

Carradine: Hello Kiddo. So you thought you would come here and “make it”? In a matter of… months? A few years? Let me tell you how this is gonna go down, kid. First I’m gonna strip you from your belongings. I’m gonna take your money, I’m gonna take your car, I’m gonna take your clothes, I’m gonna take the little things you consider dear.

For the first time, he looks at you. Well, not at you, at your feet.

Carradine: You can keep your shoes though.

You look down and realize you don’t have any shoes. You’re wearing your socks. You look back at Mr. Carradine. He’s focused rolling his joint but he continues.

Carradine: Forget friends, you ain’t got none, I’ll show you that. Family? I’m gonna take care of that as well, don’t worry. Then, kiddo, when you start feeling lonely and starts to shiver I’m gonna sink my teeth in your wrist and I’m gonna suck that blood of yours. All of it. But again, don’t worry, I won’t stop there. I’m gonna be your company for the better and for the worst. I will cut that belly of yours and let your guts out. Gotta have guts, right? Slit your throat so you can lose your head and… breathe better. I will peel your skin until you are flesh and bones. I will take piece by piece. Your heart, kid, I will save it, as a souvenir. I will break your bones, one by one. The whole 206 of them. Then, I will grind them and set them on fire. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. You will realize, kid, that you are nothing and that you are something. What, I don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s what we’re gonna find you.

He pauses. Just for a second or two but, boy, does time stop and David Carradine stops…

Carradine: You’re not gonna die, but you will suffer, I’ll make sure of that. And your heart is gonna be right here, on this table, and I’m gonna squeeze it to remind you that you have one. I will remind you of a lot of stuff, important stuff, and I will teach you, kiddo, whether you like it or not. And if you can endure that, then, well… maybe, I, can, start, to, respect you.

Mr. Carradine finally stops talking. There is a silence in the room. James Dean sits and looks at you. You look around and realizes that everybody is looking at you. Even those in the shadows. You look back to Mr. Carradine, his joint finally ready. You dare to talk, but you mumble instead.

– Mr. Carradine… I…

I fine gentleman with white hair wearing the most perfect suit passes you by towards Mr. Carradine. This gentleman has his back to you, but somehow you feel like you also know him. He gets the joint from Mr. Carradine’s hands and, David lits it for him. He takes a puff and blows smoke in the air.

– Shall we start, David?

Carradine: I think so.

You recognize the man’s accent. You look at them and for some obvious reason you start sweating. You try to talk again, this time in a more personal tone.

– Mr. Carradine… David.

The man turns to you. You thought right.

– Is is Mr. Michael Caine. He handles the joint back to Mr. Carradine, but your focus is in his other hand, the one holding that impressive God Damn 1873 Colt. 45 single action revolver. Mr. Carradine takes his puff and you know, you feel, it’s too late, there is no coming back, there is never a coming back.

– Wait, please, Mr. Carradine, Mr. Caine –

Caine: He’s not Mr. Carradine, Kid. Neither I am Mr. Caine. We are the city…

David Carradine raises the pistol. Fuck. Too late.

Caine: The city of…

– No, no, please, noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!

Carradine: Goodbye, kiddo.

Fire and smoke. You squeeze your face. The blasting sound takes over the room. Your eyes tighten. Your head seems like it’s gonna explode. You smell the scent of powder and taste blood in your mouth. Fuck. I’m dead. Silence. Complete silence. There is never silence in L.A. Yeah, I’m fucking dead, I’m sure. You open your eyes. What? You’re in your bed at your home as a new day breaks. Fuck. It was just a dream. Of course it was. It was just another film. Hollywood cliche. You sit on your bed and notice your shoes on the floor. Yes, you still got them. They’re still there, as the other tiny little things you consider dear. You get a glass of water on the nightstand and you drink your thirst down. As you put the glass back on the nightstand you notice something. A small card. A small black card. A small black card with fucking golden letters. It reads “Welcome to Hollywood… bitch”.

– Fuck.

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