It was a sad day at the office, I had spent the time watching old John Hughes films, and crying into my Wild Turkey. Then the Wild Turkey, whose name was Eric, got pissed off about being cried on and left about halfway through Pretty In Pink.
I was just at the scene where the teacher was intoning "Beuller...? Beuller...?" when there was a knock on my door. I clicked off the DVD player, dried my tears, and made myself presentable. I had business to take care.
Because I'm Furious D, and I'm a dick.
"Come in," I said. The door swung open and there was no one there.
"Hello?"
"Sorry," said a stentorian voice out of nowhere. Then a body flickered into view. He was a tall fellow, dressed entirely in green. Green suit, green hat, and even a green mask.
"You're the Green Hornet," I said.
"Yeah," he said, "I started out as a radio show, now I'm a TV show."
"Well," I said, "come in, have a seat, and tell me what's your problem."
The Green Hornet sat down across from my desk and turned into a comic book.
"What?" I said.
"Sorry," said the Green Hornet. "I never really lasted long as a TV show."
"Okay," I said, remembering that this was one of those pretentious meta-fiction pieces written by some smug know-it-all twat. "What's your problem?"
"It's big," he said, "feature film big."
"Yeah," I said, "I heard the announcement about a Green Hornet movie."
"There's been a lot of announcements," replied The Green Hornet, who morphed into a grainy black and white movie serial. "And I mean a lot of announcements. This projects been passed around like a doobie at a pot party."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to find out why," said the Green Hornet. "As long as they keep making these announcements, changing Katos on a weekly basis, and putting the project off, I'm stuck in development purgatory, and can't go to the old characters home."
"There's a home for you old characters?"
"It's great," said the Green Hornet, "it's outside Scottsdale Arizona. I was shacked up with Patricia Savage from the Doc Savage books, but now I stuck here."
"Pat Savage?" I said incredulously.
"The chicks dig me," he said, "but if I don't find a way out, my great-uncle the Lone Ranger is going to start moving in on my turf."
"I thought you couldn't admit that he's a relative?"
"Just take my case," pleaded the Green Hornet, now back to being just a voice in the ether.
"Why me?"
"Because you're the biggest dick in Hollywood," said the Green Hornet, "plus you owe me for calling your car the Brown Hornet."
"All right," I said, "I'll take the case."
I then flipped open the head of my bust of Shakespeare and pressed a big red button. A hidden panel opened revealing two fireman's poles.
"Now you're ripping off the Batman show," said the Green Hornet. "I see one pole labeled 'D', but who uses the other pole?"
"That's for my trusted sidekick," I answered, "Oh sidekick, we have a case!"
"Gobble gobble."
"Not you Eric," I said, "I need my trusted secretary, sexpot, and all around butt kicking babe, Gladiola Hassenfeffer."
A door opened and in walked Gladiola Hassenfeffer, the deadliest and sexiest secretary in town.
"We got a case," I said tossing her the keys to the Brown Hornet. "But you have to drive."
"Why?" she asked.
"I got busted driving under the influence of Wild Turkey," I answered.
"Why you ever take directions from Eric, I'll never know."
"To the D-Cave!" I cried as we leaped onto our poles and slid down to the D-Cave.
#
When I regained consciousness, I came to two conclusions. First, sliding down a greased pole is not a good idea when your office is 25 stories above your secret lair. Second, if you do that changing costume trick when you're sliding down the pole, make sure you are on the right pole.
"That catsuit really doesn't suit you," said Gladiola from the depths of my natty suit.
"My crotch is aching, and my ass looks huge," I said, "it's prom night all over again."
"Let's switch and get this case solved," said Gladiola.
#
When I regained consciousness, I came to two important conclusions. First, tight clothes can affect blood flow to the brain. Second, Gladiola Hassenfeffer was driving under the influence of Wild Turkey, and I'm not talking about Eric.
"Why didn't you tell me you were drunk?"
"The subject never came up," she said, taking another slug of bourbon. "Look," she said, "I got us here in record time."
She also got us there with a record number of police in hot pursuit. I was wondering how I could get out of the car, when it hit me.
The windshield that is.
What also hit me, was that when Gladiola put me in the Brown Hornet, she forgot to put on my seat belt.
#
When I regained consciousness, I wondered if all these head injuries were going to affect my brain in the long run.... aluminum... cheese.... monkey.... sfhg;faghfldghjklghsdjkl....
Where was I?
Oh yeah, I was in the offices of Columbia Pictures. I dusted the glass off my suit, and matching bowler hat, and ignored the cries of Gladiola being dragged out of the wreckage of the Brown Hornet by the LAPD. She was screaming her head off about "whitey" keeping her down, but I couldn't help her. When I'm on the clock as a dick, I can only go forward.
Plus all the head injuries meant I honestly couldn't remember who she was.
Anyhoo. I went up to the receptionist, skipped the usual gag about the receptionist having a naughty name and was directed to the office of Sid O. Sidney, the man in charge of the Green Hornet movie.
I knocked on his door.
"Go away," said Sid from inside, "we got a new Kato, aren't you happy. Quit asking me questions!"
I kicked open the door, mostly because I couldn't remember how to use the knob...and stormed in.
"I got questions," I said as I grabbed Sid O. Sidney by the scruff of his neck, "and you're going to spill the beans!"
"What?"
"Sing like a canary!"
"Whuh?"
"You're going to drop the dime on what's going on here," I said.
"I still don't get you?"
"What do you mean," I asked. "It's perfectly acceptable PI style banter."
"You're supposed to be a PI?"
"Just tell me what's going on with this Green Hornet movie."
Sid O. Sidney shrugged.
"Oy," said Sid, "I was worried that it was going to come to this. You see, everything these days are superhero shows and remakes."
"Yeah," I said, "go on."
"Only we don't own many superheros," said Sid, "but we do own the Green Hornet. So we go around announcing that we've got this blockbuster coming down any minute... but then we push it back a little more. We change directors, we get a new Kato. Whatever it takes."
"Why?"
"Who really remembers the Green Hornet?" asked Sid. "He's not Superman, or Spider-Man, or Batman. He's just a guy dressed up for St. Patty's day who goes out and beats people up with his butler. His TV show never really lasted, and the comic books were pretty minor, and even his radio show is so far back in the past, it ain't even worth considering. If we actually make this movie, especially with the budget everyone's expecting we'll lose our shirts."
"So why keep announcing that it's coming," I asked, "since you've been doing it since the 1990s?"
"I gotta at least look like I'm doing something," said Sid. "Plus, I had a bet with Judd Apatow that I could make Seth Rogen lose weight. I won $50."
"Good for you," I said as I let him go. I had my answers, now it was time to bail out Gladiola, get her back into rehab, bill it to my client, and declare....
I was just at the scene where the teacher was intoning "Beuller...? Beuller...?" when there was a knock on my door. I clicked off the DVD player, dried my tears, and made myself presentable. I had business to take care.
Because I'm Furious D, and I'm a dick.
"Come in," I said. The door swung open and there was no one there.
"Hello?"
"Sorry," said a stentorian voice out of nowhere. Then a body flickered into view. He was a tall fellow, dressed entirely in green. Green suit, green hat, and even a green mask.
"You're the Green Hornet," I said.
"Yeah," he said, "I started out as a radio show, now I'm a TV show."
"Well," I said, "come in, have a seat, and tell me what's your problem."
The Green Hornet sat down across from my desk and turned into a comic book.
"What?" I said.
"Sorry," said the Green Hornet. "I never really lasted long as a TV show."
"Okay," I said, remembering that this was one of those pretentious meta-fiction pieces written by some smug know-it-all twat. "What's your problem?"
"It's big," he said, "feature film big."
"Yeah," I said, "I heard the announcement about a Green Hornet movie."
"There's been a lot of announcements," replied The Green Hornet, who morphed into a grainy black and white movie serial. "And I mean a lot of announcements. This projects been passed around like a doobie at a pot party."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to find out why," said the Green Hornet. "As long as they keep making these announcements, changing Katos on a weekly basis, and putting the project off, I'm stuck in development purgatory, and can't go to the old characters home."
"There's a home for you old characters?"
"It's great," said the Green Hornet, "it's outside Scottsdale Arizona. I was shacked up with Patricia Savage from the Doc Savage books, but now I stuck here."
"Pat Savage?" I said incredulously.
"The chicks dig me," he said, "but if I don't find a way out, my great-uncle the Lone Ranger is going to start moving in on my turf."
"I thought you couldn't admit that he's a relative?"
"Just take my case," pleaded the Green Hornet, now back to being just a voice in the ether.
"Why me?"
"Because you're the biggest dick in Hollywood," said the Green Hornet, "plus you owe me for calling your car the Brown Hornet."
"All right," I said, "I'll take the case."
I then flipped open the head of my bust of Shakespeare and pressed a big red button. A hidden panel opened revealing two fireman's poles.
"Now you're ripping off the Batman show," said the Green Hornet. "I see one pole labeled 'D', but who uses the other pole?"
"That's for my trusted sidekick," I answered, "Oh sidekick, we have a case!"
"Gobble gobble."
"Not you Eric," I said, "I need my trusted secretary, sexpot, and all around butt kicking babe, Gladiola Hassenfeffer."
A door opened and in walked Gladiola Hassenfeffer, the deadliest and sexiest secretary in town.
"We got a case," I said tossing her the keys to the Brown Hornet. "But you have to drive."
"Why?" she asked.
"I got busted driving under the influence of Wild Turkey," I answered.
"Why you ever take directions from Eric, I'll never know."
"To the D-Cave!" I cried as we leaped onto our poles and slid down to the D-Cave.
#
When I regained consciousness, I came to two conclusions. First, sliding down a greased pole is not a good idea when your office is 25 stories above your secret lair. Second, if you do that changing costume trick when you're sliding down the pole, make sure you are on the right pole.
"That catsuit really doesn't suit you," said Gladiola from the depths of my natty suit.
"My crotch is aching, and my ass looks huge," I said, "it's prom night all over again."
"Let's switch and get this case solved," said Gladiola.
#
When I regained consciousness, I came to two important conclusions. First, tight clothes can affect blood flow to the brain. Second, Gladiola Hassenfeffer was driving under the influence of Wild Turkey, and I'm not talking about Eric.
"Why didn't you tell me you were drunk?"
"The subject never came up," she said, taking another slug of bourbon. "Look," she said, "I got us here in record time."
She also got us there with a record number of police in hot pursuit. I was wondering how I could get out of the car, when it hit me.
The windshield that is.
What also hit me, was that when Gladiola put me in the Brown Hornet, she forgot to put on my seat belt.
#
When I regained consciousness, I wondered if all these head injuries were going to affect my brain in the long run.... aluminum... cheese.... monkey.... sfhg;faghfldghjklghsdjkl....
Where was I?
Oh yeah, I was in the offices of Columbia Pictures. I dusted the glass off my suit, and matching bowler hat, and ignored the cries of Gladiola being dragged out of the wreckage of the Brown Hornet by the LAPD. She was screaming her head off about "whitey" keeping her down, but I couldn't help her. When I'm on the clock as a dick, I can only go forward.
Plus all the head injuries meant I honestly couldn't remember who she was.
Anyhoo. I went up to the receptionist, skipped the usual gag about the receptionist having a naughty name and was directed to the office of Sid O. Sidney, the man in charge of the Green Hornet movie.
I knocked on his door.
"Go away," said Sid from inside, "we got a new Kato, aren't you happy. Quit asking me questions!"
I kicked open the door, mostly because I couldn't remember how to use the knob...and stormed in.
"I got questions," I said as I grabbed Sid O. Sidney by the scruff of his neck, "and you're going to spill the beans!"
"What?"
"Sing like a canary!"
"Whuh?"
"You're going to drop the dime on what's going on here," I said.
"I still don't get you?"
"What do you mean," I asked. "It's perfectly acceptable PI style banter."
"You're supposed to be a PI?"
"Just tell me what's going on with this Green Hornet movie."
Sid O. Sidney shrugged.
"Oy," said Sid, "I was worried that it was going to come to this. You see, everything these days are superhero shows and remakes."
"Yeah," I said, "go on."
"Only we don't own many superheros," said Sid, "but we do own the Green Hornet. So we go around announcing that we've got this blockbuster coming down any minute... but then we push it back a little more. We change directors, we get a new Kato. Whatever it takes."
"Why?"
"Who really remembers the Green Hornet?" asked Sid. "He's not Superman, or Spider-Man, or Batman. He's just a guy dressed up for St. Patty's day who goes out and beats people up with his butler. His TV show never really lasted, and the comic books were pretty minor, and even his radio show is so far back in the past, it ain't even worth considering. If we actually make this movie, especially with the budget everyone's expecting we'll lose our shirts."
"So why keep announcing that it's coming," I asked, "since you've been doing it since the 1990s?"
"I gotta at least look like I'm doing something," said Sid. "Plus, I had a bet with Judd Apatow that I could make Seth Rogen lose weight. I won $50."
"Good for you," I said as I let him go. I had my answers, now it was time to bail out Gladiola, get her back into rehab, bill it to my client, and declare....
...CASE CLOSED
The truth about companies like Columbia Pictures in dealing with long dead franchises and how they manage to make false BS about them are now revealed to the dozen or so die hard fans of the 'Green Hornet'!
ReplyDeleteSeriously, who does know about that story?
Great read as always D!