Monday, 2 July 2007

Chapter 9

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A Mystery/Thriller/Adventure thing that is a complete work of baldfaced fiction, especially the parts involving real people, so don't sue me, cause I got nothing.


"Hell no," I said.

"Shouldn't we do something about George Lucas before we go to Cannes?" asked Playful1.

I looked down, lying at my feet was George Lucas, the mind control device Chompy disabled in Chapter 8 still clamped on his neck.

"Do I have to?" I asked in a tone that cannot be described in any way as 'whiny' and anyone who tells you otherwise is a damnable liar.

"That would be the right thing to do," added GiGi, Chompy nodded in agreement.

"Et tu Chompy?" I asked, "You used to be amoral about stuff, what happened?"

Chompy shrugged.

"Fine," I said, "I'll take off the mind control device, since I'm suddenly no longer allowed to leave him a vegetable. I need a set of screwdrivers, a wire cutter, and a hacksaw."

"Coming up," said GiGi reaching into her bra.

"Now," I said, "this is a very delicate operation, but luckily I have the hands of a surgeon." I reached into my pockets and took out the hands, which I had won in a game of Saudi Hold'Em Poker from a heart surgeon from Lubbock Texas and placed them under George Lucas's head to prop it up.


"That was an incredible feat you did," said Playful1 sipping on a martini in her seat in the Lucasfilm Company jet.

"Nothing a man of my brilliance, and modesty couldn't accomplish," I replied, leaning back in my plush seat. "I was a little worried when his head fell off, but... oh, you know the rest of the story."

"Nice of him to lend us his company jet to take us to the Cannes Film Festival," said GiGi, doing her part in the cause of plot exposition.

"All part of his penance for creating Jar-Jar Binks. Plus I have the keys to the Lucasfilm luxury hotel suite," I said, jingling the keys in victory.

"He gave you those too?" asked Playful1.

"Yeah," I replied, "he gave them to me...."

"Are those his house and car keys too?" asked GiGi.

"Enough talk about keys," I said, sticking the evidence, I mean keys, back in my pocket. "The people who used a mind control device on George Lucas and framed me, are deadly and powerful. If we are going to beat them to the Albanian Budgie we're going to have to be clever. We need clever, nay, brilliant disguises."

"I got just the thing," said GiGi, pulling a case, much to the surprise of everyone, from beneath her seat. It was marked: Professor Paparazzi's Celebrity Disguise Kits.

"It's what the paparazzi use to fake pictures of celebrities doing stupid things," said GiGi.

"How come you have it?" I asked.

"I do have a life outside of this story," answered GiGi, "plus I got it at a yard sale, since there's never a shortage of celebrities doing stupid things it's never been used."

"Let's get to work."


"Well," I said, adjusting the tie on my tuxedo, which was part of my Julio Iglesias disguise, "don't I look smooth."

"Yee-hah!" said GiGi, looking like puberty had been inordinately generous in her white sequined Dolly Parton disguise.

"I see you're getting into character," I said.

"What character?" asked GiGi.

"Why do I have to be Willie Nelson?" asked Playful1.

"You drew the short straw," I answered. "Besides, you're too sober to pull off the Lindsay Lohan disguise."

"Couldn't I have been Courtney Love?" asked Playful1.

"For some reason Chompy called dibs on that," I answered. "And I don't want to know why, so I'm not going to challenge him on that."


We stepped off the plane and into the blinding glare of the Mediterranean sun.

At one time Cannes was a sleepy little coastal town described as the unshaven armpit of France in its own travel brochures. Then they rewrote those brochures and started the film festival hoping some movie glamour would rub off on the town.

I'm not it was glamour, but there was certainly something in the air, smelling vaguely of cigarrettes, car exhaust, suntan lotion, overpriced food and drink, pretension, and above all, money.

It was the smell of Hollywood.

"Julio!" screamed a woman in oversized sunglasses and and an overpriced designer dress. "Won't you introduce me to your Willie?"

"What?" I asked, having never been propositioned like this in any situation outside of my brief career as Lance Goodthrust, porn star.

"Willie Nelson," said the Lady, "Oh you must all sing for us!"

Suddenly we were surrounded by a gaggle of international celebrities, press, and hangers-on. Our disguises were a little too good.

"Okay," I said, clearing my throat, preparing to wow them with my dulcet tones.

To all ze girls I've loved before....
Who travelled in and out my door...
It's to you I give my thanks...
Even to the skanks...
Who are why when I pee I get sore...

The crowd cheered. It was working.

"Nooo!" screamed a voice from the crowd.

The crowd parted revealing a burly man with a machine gun.

"You're all a bunch of fakes!" declared the man with the machine gun. "And for that you must die!"


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