Premise:
1967. Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Festus Johnson, picture William Smith (Arnold Schwarzenegger's blacksmith/swordsmith father in Conan the Barbarian), called upon to "take care" of three hikers who have seen "the non-terrestrial CRAFT."
Must gun down a trio of curious hippies--one woman, two men. After blasting them he burns their bodies.
Colonel Johnson increases his whisky intake. He picks fights with other officers, beats on enlisted personnel, gets used to the taste of the barrel end of his gun. In his mouth every night, he practically meditates on the conglomeration of events around his current state.
The Craft landing in August 1965 near St. George, Utah. Its three pilots dead inside, apparently upon entry into Earth's atmosphere. A broken seal on the engine cowling apparently poisoned them before they landed, the ship taking itself down smoothly on autopilot.
Secrecy corroded everyone's soul at Area 19, the Air Force reservation no had ever heard of, halfway to nowhere, eastern Nevada, a small facility in the 1960s, Vice President Spiro Agnew rumored to have fainted when he saw the preserved alien bodies. Abandoned in 1973, Area 19's projects were transferred across state to Area 51.
Apart from this, Johnson broods over his and the Air Force's victims: two of the Hippies he killed were sons of Philadelphia old rich. The woman was a nothing from Oklahoma, or so Johnson first told himself, but after a short while, his killing of the woman, her eyes widened in fear, the trembling of her body even though it was ninety degrees, the act of homicide sat inside Colonel Johnson, a cursed piece of lead in his stomach, splashed with waves of Jack Daniels. After an investigation, Johnson is honorably discharged with a requirement to check in with an Air Force psychiatrist once per month. A former Captain, Prudence Gilroy, comes on to him in a bar. She and he start a relationship. She's actually spying on behalf of the Air Force Special Branch Concerning Alien Matters.
The "Craft," soon after entry by human military scientists, shut down completely. Back on base, Colonel Johnson was one of a study group assigned to the "Craft," his sub-group labeled PROPULSION.
In spite of his irascible personality and alcoholism, he retains his research position until one day, seated before the ship's trapezoidal control board, he stares at the gray screen showing, continuously, a slanted light bar followed by a horizontal bar-- on and on like that. When he puts his hands on a control switch, turns it half to the right then two full turns to the left, a combination he thought up while showering away some of his hangover that morning. The ship hums, hatches close, he's the only one on board. The ship rises, rotates, shoots off through the corrugated aluminum roof in a long arc over California to high above the Pacific Ocean, flying higher and upwards above Malaysia to where there is no up and there is no where.
Ship lands an hour later subjective time on a planet orbiting Alpha Centauri A, Sun-like primary of a triple system 4.367 light years away from your eyes as you read this in Earthbound decades.
Descending from the ship, .45 drawn--yes, he still carries the Hippy-slaying weapon, naming it his "Curse Gun."
Technically, a "Curse Pistol," but that sounds less biting, less angry.
CURSE GUN!
On a mission to get to the bottom of why he had to kill three people, and willing to kill to find out the truth, Festus Johnson, Lieutenant Colonel, Retired, no more feeling of obligation to the Air Force or Earth, has a strip of alien technology wired into his forehead, invisible to the naked eye. Festus is given a six-legged ant-horse, a map with directions to the big city where he can visit an agency where he can be hooked up with a job, make himself useful to Alpha Centauri A4, or Groovyworld as the inhabitants call it. No one on Groovyworld gives shame to Festus Johnson for carrying his Curse Gun, cradling it like it's a baby, kissing it, talking to it, scratching his temple with it. He takes it into the public sauna with him. He brags about America's gun culture, how gun sales have never been better, strange talk in a sweatbox with aliens whose armpits support penis-like pleasure extensors with eyes along the shafts, looking with curiosity at the Earthman.
Meanwhile on Earth, Hack Yachtsharbor, Senator from Pennsylvania and uncle to one of the slain Hippies, seizes the Democratic nomination from the President, a shocking turn of events not even known about by Festus Johnson, marveling at the sophisticated and peaceful city and its green and pink inhabitants.
Premise:
Europa has insurance salesmen now. Double indemnity if death occurs in Europa's summer slush.
Thirty-nine poets assemble at a Keats convention in Roma, Italia. Ancient Rome, the Rome of Tiberius, of Marcus Aurelius, the place sacked by Alaric.
Hazel the TV show maid works for Alaric, the Visigothic King who led his people to Rome, sacked it in A.D. 410, then went on to Spain and southern France. Hazel was the housekeeper of a Roman senator, Publius Maximus Glorianus Anusanus Dickheadicus Totalus Fucktardicus Vorchvundelvander. As is well known, this dignitary lost the respect of his senatorial colleagues when he suggested they should fight the Visigoths before the horde reached Rome's ill-defended walls. Pelted with fruit, Publius Maximus Glorianus Anusanus Dickheadicus Totalus Fucktardicus Vorchvundelvander exited the Senate, watched the Visigoths take over the city from his rooftop gazebo. He could no longer afford Hazel, beloved middle-aged pudgy family maid. She packed her Samsonite, took her umbrella, wore several layers of clothes and three raincoats as she wandered, trusting Fortuna to aid her in finding a job, and sure enough, she was kidnapped by servants working for the household of Creepo Moronus, Vice-Gleeb of District 24, played by Don DeFore. Who else but Shirley Booth could play Hazel? Creepo Moronus doesn't understand women. His wife, Flavia, baffles him with her demands for anal sex. She's already had nine sons, she says, she wants no more babies. Hazel sits Creepo down, puts a pudgy hand on the toga fabric at his shoulder.
Mister M. You need to give your wife a break from childbearing. It's exhausting. My Toby weighed ten pounds! He held on to my vaginal walls, struggling to stay inside. He was a fighter! Still is! Heavyweight champion of the East Side Jacksonville YMCA. Glory be to Jupiter! Mister M. You need to not look a gift anus in the mouth. Your wife wants your manhood--I've seen it, it's generous--in her bottom, and pronto. I happen to know the Missus voided her bowels then took her daily bath. She's fresh as a daisy, and her rectum is tight!
Premise:
An obscure writer named after a planet composes essays in the form of fiction and vice versa, gets read in places like Portugal, Vietnam, and Bulgaria. The obscure writer is not a capitalist, a socialist, a pragmatist, an irredentist, or any kind of -ist except maybe artist. Art as a craft, a practice, a discipline requiring serious attention in order to better oneself at the craft of one's art through practice. This premise more like a how-to video than a film or novel.
Premise:
Last day of school. No one got shot.
Premise:
Twelve miles northeast of Shame, Wyoming, sagebrush smell in the air, a lone light brown horse waits for someone to guide him. What happened to Robert Taylor? Out hunting, horse steps on a rattlesnake, whinnies, throws Taylor off, hits handsome Hollywood head on well-framed rock, comes to, dreaming of Eleanor Parker, no she's standing over him, holding a cold compress to his forehead. His head hurts bad. Real bad.
Mustn't complain. Can't be seen as weak by a woman, especially this lovely one. Without this splitting headache I'd embrace those hips, nuzzle that bosom.
"You must rest. You've taken a blow to the head. You were out. My brother found you."
"What's your name?"
"Helen."
Brother enters. Dan Duryea. That sneering way he talks, as in Scarlet Street.
"Well, back from the dead, I see."
"I owe you my life," Taylor says, trying to sit up and hold out his hand for a shake.
"Save it. I was out checkin the perimeter. You were knocked out three feet inside our property. Felt it were my duty to hoist you up onto my horse's rear and bring you in to Sis. She's a wonder with healin, aincha, Sis?"
"I don't know about that. Here, look up. I think you'll be all right in a day or two. Meanwhile, lie back and rest. I'll make dinner."
"That's her other fine trait, her cooking," the brother boasts. His name, he tells Robert Taylor, is Naboth.
"Naboth Forger, White Plains, New York, by way of Montgomery, Alabama."
"Hence the accent."
"Where are you from?"
"Nebraska Territory."
"Ever kill a buffalo?"
"Many," Taylor says.
"A real man, huh? Those Indians get right up on those bison, full speed gallop right alongside, firing arrows into two tons of running meat with horns and hooves. Is that how you killed yours?"
"No. That's too dangerous. Indians are crazy."
"The crazy ones are. Like with Wašíču."
"Do you think I'm a crazy White man?" Naboth asks after a moment.
"You found me unconscious. You helped me get to where I can be healed. I appreciate that. I won't judge you."
Taylor's character's name is Ford von Hilgesheimer, a German newspaper reporter writing a series on the American West (Taylor doesn't attempt a German accent, just talks like himself). Now, Ford von Hilgesheimer wants a gun. He asks Naboth if he can sell him a firearm. Naboth owns thirteen guns, but urges upon Ford an 1849 Colt Pocket Percussion Revolver.
"I'll let you have this one but, caveat emptor, this gun is cursed."
"How cursed?"
"It does the job, I've killed ten men with it, but it gives its user bad dreams. You'll find out after you kill someone with it."
C U R S E G U N 2
Premise:
Every male is named Andy, every female is named Sandy.
Andy comes home from a long grind at work, wants to relax with a beer, but Sandy tells him their son Andy skipped his American history class so he could view a partial solar eclipse with his friends, Andy, Andy, Sandy, and Andy. Science teacher Mr. Andy brought his Celestron Telescope to view the event, such a rare opportunity. Still, later on, Sandy got a call from Principal Andy's office about her son's class-cutting.
"Andy's history teacher, Mrs. Sandy," Sandy explains to her husband, "is disappointed in Andy. He's an A student, one of her very brightest pupils. Andy, you need to talk to Andy."
"Andy Christ! All right, where is Andy?"
"He's in his bedroom playing chess with his friend, Andy."
Andy knocks on Andy's door. Andy lets him in. Andy and Andy's chess game looks like it's reached end game status with Andy in good position to win.
"Hello, sir," Andy says.
"Hello, Andy. Would you mind stepping out for a minute while I talk to Andy?"
"Okay. Remember, Andy, it's still my turn."
"I won't forget, Andy, and I won't study the board while you're gone."
"Mighty fair of you, Andy," Andy says, proud of his son's sense of fair play. "Now what's this about skipping history class?"
"Well, during first hour, Sandy told me her science class was going to observe the eclipse using Mr. Andy's telescope."
"Safely, I hope?"
"Yeah, we didn't burn our eyes out. There's a filter that protected us."
"Clever. Go on."
"So fourth hour came. I was going to history, but Andy came down the hall and said I just had to go look at the eclipse along with his science class."
"So, Andy tells you to do something and you do it? If Andy told you to jump off a cliff would you do it?"
"There aren't any cliffs around here."
"Andy, you know what I mean."
"It wasn't peer pressure. It was curiosity. I'd never seen a partial solar eclipse before."
"Andy, did you consider asking your history teacher, Mrs. Sandy, for a permission slip to observe the eclipse?"
"Too bad you didn't suggest that idea before I went to school."
"Whoah, Andy! Don't blame your irresponsible behavior on me! From your mother's tone, I know I have to punish you. So here it is. I'm not going to tell you how to get out of the predicament your Queen finds herself in. You're going to lose in five moves, that is, if Andy is as good a chess player as I think he is."
"He's really good. He beat Andy in a Junior Class A tournament."
Vic Neptune
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