SUMMER ROAD TRIP PART II: An intimate look at Road to Perdition, Halloween 8: Resurrection, and Men in Black 2 with some scathing f*cks I happened upon in the desert.
(Bringing back the shame since 1971)
Act I: Road to Perdition
Well, Bag and I never made it out of the desert. We wandered around in that spine-severing heat for six straight days, lost and delusional. We were chasing a dream; a dissolving nightmare of what our lives used to be. This tiny disease was pad-locked in our collective tailbone, and like the combination to any one of my old high school lockers, I'd long since forgotten each and every secret number saved in that spinning knob.
My only hope in this life is to reach Broadway (well, not technically Broadway, but a few blocks down) before the end of summer. There, I'll get to see Maggie Gyllenhaal in a stage revival of Any Which Way You Can. (David Schwimmer is playing Clyde, you know.) After Secretary hits, there wont be any getting within a 1000 yards of Miss Gyllenhaal. She's going to be the next media darling in that cinematic sweet spot. Seeing her live, amongst the lights, on that tiny hole-in-the-wall stage is as close to perfection as I'll ever come. But, alas, I do not think we'll ever make it that far. God has it out for me. And Bag? He's just along for the ride.
While traipsing the lonely outskirts of nowhere, we hit upon a Multiplex the size of a Lakai shoebox. I didn't want to stop. I had no desire to watch another 'Summer Film' as it rolled itself out in droning bleats of agony. Heck, I'd already seen the greatest film of the past ten summers in Eight Legged Freaks. Nothing is going to top that for awhile. Yet, The Orange had to hesitate. I'd heard nothing but praise for Sam Mendes' new epic, Road to Perdition. Thousands of reviewers had already claimed it a flawless achievement. They've declared it the best movie of the year, hands down, without having to look at anything else.
An Oscar contender; a winner. Then, after hooking my cell phone into a wire jack, I happened upon the inevitable backlash. The same critics who'd stood in front of me live and in the flesh just weeks ago, drooling all over this 'masterpiece', were printing up some sh*t-talk in direct relation to Mendes' Father and Son crime opus. What was going on here? Either you like it or you don't. I saw critics taking sides with the film, claiming it to be perfect and accomplished yet not that enjoyable. Huh? This was definitely something I had to check out. Luckily, that tiny shoebox multiplex was showing Road to Perdition...Right next door to Halloween 8. So, I paid their exuberant fifteen dollar fee (It is the high desert, I guess they can charge whatever they want) and ran in to see Tom Hanks' latest.
Hmm? Do you really care what I think?
I knew you didn't, but I don't care.
Now, I'm sure I've read almost every loving review that's been churned out by my contemporaries in the business regarding Road to Perdition. There's a very disturbing aspect found in the film that is never mentioned in a single one of those critical stabbings. And it ruined The Orange's inert concentration of the piece as a whole: Tom Hanks' fake schnozze. What the f*ck is this about? I'll go out on a limb and say, yeah, I've seen every single Tom Hanks film ever made, even Buford's Beach Bunnies and that Dungeons & Dragons TV flick. Tom's profile has been burned into my psyche. Seeing him with that obvious, rubber adhesive stuck to his face jarred me out of my seat. I expected him to belt out, "I limp to the side like my legs are broken," right before breaking into the Humpty Dance. Was this fraudulent proboscis necessary to the plot? No. It might have added a bit of character had it not been so prominent. This slick and puffy notch of foam seemed poised to drop at any minute, revealing the gag it's surely meant to be. That nose is very distracting.
Though, not as distracting as the paper-thin wall separating the theater's two screens (Do two screens really constitute calling it a Multiplex?). For much of its plot, Perdition is a quiet movie. So quiet that the thumping bass sound of Michael Myers' latest kill couldn't help but bleed into the story structure. Early on, there is a poignant moment between Hanks and Paul Newman where the two sit at a piano and bang out an Irish Jig. Each actor plays with one hand, becoming a symbiotic beast. It's an important, fluid scene that's meant to set-up their relationship; a key plot point set forth to shoot through the finale. Without these few special beats, the whole ending would be for naught. Now imagine this chapter-stop being accompanied by the bass line of John Carpenter's Halloween theme while audible gouging and screaming is winding it's why through the whole mess. Not Mendes' fault, by any means, but it was as if some sh*t-f*ck waiter had poured a half shaker of salt on my spaghetti. This type of move is guaranteed to ruin the taste of just about whatever it is you're shoving in your mouth.
Though, Danny Lux's revisionist score plays nicely when Tom's son, Tyler Hoechlin, is lying in bed reading his Lone Ranger Big Little book. Every turn of the page was met with a resounding boom from next door. This odd tweak places an extra streak of importance on an otherwise forgettable sequence. When the motif returns later in the film, Halloween 8 having played past its 82 minute running time, the Big Little book just doesn't have the same effect without that resounding bass line. The unintentional heaviness is gone.
Sure, sure...These are inconsequential, minor squabbles with an otherwise faultless stretch of film. If Road to Perdition is guaranteed to win one Oscar, it'll be for Conrad L. Hall's cinematography. Each shot should be scalped and made into a postcard, readily available to send through the mail at one's own leisure. Yes, the pacing here is a bit tedious. Audible snores were heard floating up from the back isle only twenty minutes in. The first act seems pieced together in clouds; a precipitating grey mass that floats by without much urgency. It's the type of film you don't want to drift off in, but you can't help but do just that. Trying to stay focused on its lax energy is harder than trying to absentmindedly stare at a blank wall without falling asleep.
Road to Perdition takes its sweet time snaring you in. For long beats and pauses, it lazily drifts its net through the seas of your subconscious, slowly but surely gathering you into its luscious trap. Once the film hits that second act, the thing picks up in strides. Much like this year's earlier Bill Paxton Horror-Superhero flick Frailty, Mendes' effort isn't an initial plunge. It takes awhile for the film to soak into brain matter. You're not sure you like it. You're still not sure you like it. Then suddenly, like some awful song that's eaten its way into your heart, you're in love with the thing and you want to embrace it. Then, you remember a certain aspect or scene that, once again, has you feeling quite the opposite.
For instance, Jude Law. By the time he shows up, you forget he's even supposed to be in the darn thing. The look of his character is lopsided, out of place. His is a stand alone concept that surely must have been xeroxed off the pages of the comic book this movie is based on. Just look at those dying teeth, that toxic fallout of a hairstyle, even his funeral home fingernails. F*ck, looking at Tom Hanks' rubber snout and Law's whole persona, I left the theater wondering out loud, "What the f*ck was Mendes trying to do? Make Dick Tracy 2?"
Bag, on the other hand, enjoyed the film immensely...
Act II: Halloween 8: Resurrection
"You knit-picky bastard," Bag wouldn't let up, "Perdition is a beautiful film to look at."
"I don't dispute that."
"Orange, come on. You called it Dick Tracy 2. That's a blatant slap in the face. This is the best gangster film since the Godfather."
"Godfather 3, maybe."
"This is an exciting, mesmerizing piece of work. Brilliant. A masterpiece."
"You're quite the little quote whore this morning. I'm sure we're never going to see 'A. Bag of Nowhere says Road to Perdition is brilliant.' On a newspaper advert anytime soon."
"You'd be surprised." No, I won't, to tell you the truth.
Continuing our trek east, neither Bag nor I had seen a car in over fifteen hours. The last ride, a 1957 Edsel being driven by this comely minx in a lavender brazier, refused to give us a lift. Though, she did offer to haul Bag to the nearest available trash heap. I'm not sure, but I think she was that one actress, Anna Faris. Her blonde wig wasn't fooling anybody, especially me. Both Bag and I found it in our best interests to skip the offer and let her pass.
The heat was peeking past the 114 degree mark. My knees where on the verge of giving out. My sweaty palm was attempting to eat its way through Bag's sack-face. Off in the distance we spotted an alcove dug into the side of a small sand dune. It looked like a swell place to take refuge.
Of course, like the worst type of mirage, this small shaded cave continued to fling itself further into the distance the closer we got to it. It was an excruciating trip neither one of us had planned for. Bag and I strapped a couple of hubcaps to our heads like we were Rubin & Ed. It was everything we could do to continue with this asinine journey.
Upon reaching the entrance to this luxurious hole in the desert, we both realized it was an occupied space. An albino Russian girl of about nineteen years in age sat within the blistering shade, near the outer rim of the grotto. She held a purse wallet in her hand that still had its plastic theft device punched through the lip near the zipper. Covered in teeth marks, it was a well chewed-on shoplifting deterrent. As soon as I saw it, I knew we'd be the best of friends.
"How did you know she was Russian?"
"Shut up, Bag. I"m the one telling this story."
Bag and I climbed to reach our pink-eyed girl. She was less than impressed with our appearance. In a rustic Russian accent more realistic than Harrison Ford in K-19, she sneered, "How do you say...Hello?"
"That's exactly how you say it. How do you do, Miss Lady? I'm The Orange. What's your name?"
"Sorry? Vhat's my nahm?"
Bag broke it down real quick in a manner of rudeness befitting a man made of brown paper, "Look, night of the lepus, he wants to know your name, your title, what you call yourself. Besides looking like a powdered donut, are you deaf, too?"
The girl looked at bag, disgusted that he was bucking around on my fist, "Vhat is dis?"
"Don't mind my friend; he's suffering from mild heat stroke. You know? Hot? Hot!? I fanned my hand in front of my face in order to express our discomfort with the atmosphere. The girl was a quick study, "Yes, hot. My nahm is Lhee."
"Nice to meet you, Lee. Can me and my friend, Bag, come inside your hole? We'd really like to get out of the Sun."
"Yes, cahm in." She waved us inside and we followed. The place was quaint; empty. Except, sitting near the back wall on two knees near an old 8mm projector was the Ghost of one very dead Don Simpson, "He ahs been here all day vatching...How do you say...Porno?"
"That's how you'd say it." The creepy looking, drug-addled apparition turned to us wearing a "Honk If You Love Porn" T-shirt. "Are you Giovanni?" He called out in a muted whisper.
"No." I could barely choke the word past my stingy teeth. Simpson turned back to the blurred image being projected on the rocky surface of the cave wall. He was watching Homey in a Haystack. (It's the far more superior sequel to Honkey Haystack.)
"Ee ahsks everybody ooh comes here, 'Are you Giovanni?' Giovanni, Giovanni...Ooh is dis Giovanni? Ee's driving my...How do you say...Nuts?"
"I've probably seen all of Don's movies, and that name doesn't ring a bell."
Bag shot forth, "It's hot as Hell in here, the dude's watching Homey in a Haystack, he's asking for an ominous sounding Italian dude. Orange, we have stumbled upon one man's eternal damnation."
"Yes, Ee vhas here vhen I arrived."
"I'll take care of this, don't you worry about a thing." I handed Bag to Lee and wandered over to the deceased producer, "Say, me and my lady friend would like a little privacy. Why don't you skedaddle, huh? Go chase a rainbow or something."
Simpson slowly turned his wispy frame towards me. As he stood from bended knee, his luminescent husk grew large like a creeping shadow. His face stretched and morphed into a hideous tool of Satan. Through his chest cavity I could see Homey parting the seas of one sweet looking Amish cupcake. This new mutation stretched out its fang-filled maw and let loose one Hellish shriek.
I ran backwards, bumping into Lee and Bag. We all grabbed at each other as the Simpson-Beast clamored towards our pity-party on two translucent chicken legs. It was all we could do to get outside, where we leaped a good two stories to the rock-sandy bottom below. As we stood brushing ourselves off, we could see Don's Poltergeist-like head erupting from the cave hole in a shower of blue flame. We'd lost our only shade, "Vhat are ve gong to do know?"
I grabbed at Lee's dress-top, under which she was wearing a thick pair of industrial strength jeans. I wanted to get out of their as fast as possible. Luckily, Bag and I still had those hubcaps strapped to our heads. Being a gentleman, I gladly offered mine to this deathly pale white (as in snow white) hippie Russian girl. She wasn't a supermodel, by any means, but after she gladly accepted my offer, I reached out to hold her hand in a loving manner. She wasn't having it, "Vi don't tink so."
"I know what we can do. There's an air-conditioned multiplex just over the hill there, maybe six miles away."
"Orange, it'll set us back another 12 hours."
"Yes, but our friend's an Albino. She's going to burn to death in this sun."
"Yes. I vill." I pulled a pair of sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt from my back-pack and handed them to Lee. We then set our sights on that tiny two-screen theater. It was another boorish, Hell walk that made me come to realize: I'll never make it with an Albino hippie chick from Russia even though she's completely devoid of any other personal contact.
Oh, well. That's my life.
Of course, when we arrived, our newly acquired friend wanted to see Tom Hanks. I tried to explain to her that we'd already seen it, and it was a tad on the boring side. Bag reasoned that Road to Perdition was a good two hours long. That would be more air-conditioning time for our forty-five dollars. But I wanted to see Michael Myers, "Vhat is dis Halloveen?"
"It's a movie about a serial killer known as The Shape. It's the eighth one in the series."
"Vi have never seen vun of dese movies. I vant to see Tom Hanks." Ignoring her plea, along with Bag's deep-seated sighs, I bought us tickets to this new chapter in the October saga.
That crowd inside sure got into it once it started, but our little Russian friend was less than enthused upon exit of the theater, "That vas orr-ible!"
"I didn't think it was so bad. I quite enjoyed myself. Halloween: Resurrection is ten times better than H2O. Nobody died in that movie, except for Little Man Tate. Part Seven was severely lacking in substance, and it succumbed to the hipster stylings of Kevin Williamson, making it more Dawson's Creek and less John Carpenter. I'd waited a along time to see 7's follow-through, and it completely washed away the mythology set-up in Parts 4 through 6, even though 6 was also somewhat of a letdown. The thing that bothered me most, here, is that 8 also neglects to acknowledge the events between the Return and the Curse of Michael Myers. What's that about?
In one of its keenly executed scenes, Mike lovingly hands his kitchen knife over to a Serial Killer enthusiast who knows everything about every famous murderer. Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy; he reads their stat-sheets as if reciting the backs of baseball cards. When he gleefully recites Myers dastardly deeds, he willingly shouts out every kill in One, Two, and Seven. This guy's an idiot and needs to be locked deeper in the nuthouse. I can see ignoring Part 3 with its brain-melting rubber masks, but to lump the next couple of movies in with this one aberration, that's sheer blasphemy. I want to see Danielle Harris return. She's not doing much these days. Granted, I loved Killer Bud, but let's not let that be the pentacle of her career. If she's not in Part 9, I may just give up on this whole series."
"Vhat about Jasahn? I vaited for the Jasahn in dah hockey-mask. He never shoad."
"That's Friday the 13th, a whole other set of films. And no, this isn't on par with the excellent Jason X. Though, setting aside a few minor quibbles, this is by far the best Halloween since part Five. If I was Moustapha Akkad, I would have glossed over the events in Parts 6 & 7. There's one moment that would have made this film for me, and it's an opportunity missed. Michael is walking down a corridor underneath the asylum and he passes by a vending machine. I so badly wanted him to stop and pull out a ZagNut, or something. Just a tiny moment of character building that he sorely needs after these twenty-odd years on the road. But no, he walks by without a care in the world. Didn't you hear me psychically groan?"
"I thought that was because it sucked."
"Shut up, Bag. I'm trying to make a point. The next Halloween movie desperately needs to just be about Michael Myers. We need to get to know him. What he does on his off days, where he goes between killings. I want to see him walking around, being mean to people at his part-time job. Where's the scene of him buying his new mask? Did he stop at a Mexican Flea market to get that fresh Dickies jumpsuit? I want to know and see these things. It could all be done without every seeing his face. Please, somebody! Make this movie."
"Didn't Rick Rosenthal direct this thing?"
"Yeah, he did. He directed Part 2 as well, which is my favorite of the bunch. I like how he gives a little nod and wink to his first outing by ending 8 where that one started off: In a Hospital. Rick knows the Myers' myth, he worked under John Carpenter. He's made a good film here. If he went out on a limb and branched the subject, he could make a great one. It's called taking a chance. I think he ought to try it. First, he should look at where he succeeds in this film. The killings are top notch, some of the best I've seen in the series. But much better are the scenes where Michael actually gets to interact with people. The scene between the Serial Killer know-it-all and Mike is just ebbing the tide. Laurie Strode's good-bye kiss is perfection, and when we have Busta Rhymes berating the less than brilliant Michael, we have some of the brightest moments found in a slasher-flick to date.
They call him a killer shark. That's somewhat true, but a Great White wouldn't turn its back on you or willingly give you some of its teeth. There's a bit of humanity inside that mask. Rosenthal cracks open that notion just a tiny bit, giving us a taste of what this series could achieve. I don't think this one's dead. It's got a lot of potential left in its bones."
"But vhy? Vhy do they have to yell? It's...How do you say? Bloody? Gross?"
"It is. The audience really got into it, applauding every time Mike perfected another one of his skillful kills. This is directly addressed in the scene where the partygoers are watching the proceedings on a computer. They, too, scream in joyous rapture when Myers' grouts another victim. It's a visceral entertainment. I liked that all the potential prey looks exactly like someone from another movie we've wanted to see desecrated. We've got our Julianne Moore, our Brittany Murphy. Hell, they didn't even bother getting someone that looked like that Tara Reid munching doofus from American Pie. They just went and got Thomas Ian Nichols himself (there's a reason he's not featured on the AP DVD slipcover, you know). I'd applaud that, too.
The thing that bothers me is that the audience is so fickle. For the first two acts, they cheer Mike on like he should be a part of the Lakers. Then, when there's only the faceless girl and Busta left, they cheer them on, happy to see Myers getting his ass kicked. Come on, people. Choose a side and stick with it. You can't cheer for both teams. That's why you heard me booing when Michael got his at the end. I wanted to see him live. Sadly, we don't get to see Busta die. With that notion in hand, factoring in that the last few slasher flicks have all had black protagonists who are still alive by end credits, if I ever hear the cliche that Black people always die first, in another one of these films, I will hunt down the scriptwriter and kill him myself. The new cliche would have to be, "White men never make it to the end of these films." Of course, I wonder why we don't get to see Tyra Banks' demise? What happened to her death scene? Was it too violent for an R rating? Lets hope so; it comes as a huge disappointment. And the fact that the appearance of a bong garnered more applause than anything else gives me little hope for the youth of America; especially since they failed to clap during John Carpenter's one credit. Overall, though, I'd have to say the strangest thing in the film is that rumpled picture of Josh Hartnett tacked to Laurie Strode's bedroom wall in the asylum. It looks to have been cut right out of a magazine as an afterthought. Now that's funny stuff."
"Oye, Vie! Killink, killink, killink! Vhat is dat?"
"I don't know, but it makes me happy. I like the killing."
Bag chimed in with his two cents, "I don't. These movies are working on a level of stupidity that is beyond human comprehension."
"The Bahg is vrigth. Mr. Orange. You are...How do you say...A pompous, arrogahnt jerk vho likes to tahlk about himself in dah thurd person. Shoo are a complete ahs'ole. Maybe if you spent more tihm paying attention to dah movies than your anus, dere might be a goat's chance in Iraq that you could become a vreal critikt. Ah, but vyer self vorship and sarcasm vould never allow for that."
"Yup, that's exactly how you'd say it."
"Come on, Bahg, let's ditch this heathen." Lee shoved Bag onto her own fist and the two wandered off into the heat of the night. I'd been abandoned, left alone to die in the desert. The way I figured it, Bag never really wanted to see Maggie Gyllenhaal live, anyway. I mean, f*ck that a**hole sack. I would have had to buy his ticket, so I guess it works out in the end.
Act III: Men in Black 2
I walked throughout the night in hopes of finding a bit of shade come morning. Before sunrise, I spotted a large structure in the distance. The closer I got to it, the more it looked like an abandoned riverboat. Having starved myself for 36 hours, this was sure to be a mirage. Yet, it stayed in the same place the closer I got. Finally, I saw a large neon sign that welcomed me into this out of the way Casino and Hotel. Just what I needed: A day in an air-conditioned room. So what if it put me behind schedule in seeing the lovely Miss Gyllenhaal? At this rate, I was never going to get there in the first place.
My room was cheap, and they had a fine bar. After a dip in the pool, I collected a fishbowl-sized glass of Desert Micro-Brew and took a stroll around the dollar slots. This was my one mistake. Upstairs, in the non-smoking area which was mostly empty, I saw one lone figure hunched over a game of Kino.
This ominous, familiar man heard my approaching footsteps and stopped what he was doing. His fingers ceased the kicking of one more quarter into that beast. He slowly rose to his feet. Yup, it was Ol' Billy Dooku, and he didn't like the looks of me, "Well, if I done sh*t two biscuits, it would have to be you."
"Mr. Dooku. I didn't know you were a gambling man."
"I ought'ah right done kill ya right now."
"Please, Billy!" I held up my back-pack, unzipping the flap and taking out the Episode II bootlegs that Bag had stolen from underneath the car seat of this washed-up cowboy's station wagon, "We never even got a chance to watch 'em. We never copied 'em. There right here, safe and sound."
"Where is that ol' bag of yours, anyhow?"
"He took off with some Russian floozie suffering from a pigment disorder."
"Well, I always knew he was the smarter one of the two of ya's." Billy pulled a small revolver out of his coat and aimed it at my face, "I's got a proposition for ya, Mr. Big City Critic. Hand over those bootlegs, and then give me a review of that new Men in Black movie. You's better be doin' it Big Willie style, too. Or I'll shoot you in the face."
"You want me to tell you about a movie, or you'll kill me?"
"I want to here you give me a decent, straight forward opinion. I don't like your style. I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself."
"Okay, but wouldn't you rather gamble some more?"
"No, I'm taking a gamble that you don't know what you're talkin' 'bout when it comes to the movies. Now shoot."
"Men in Black 2, huh? What to say? Well, the rumors about its running time were sadly true. I'd heard it was an hour and seven minutes long. Most newspapers clocked it at 82 minutes, but that was a lie. I timed it myself and it came out to be an hour and eleven minutes without end credits. At that rate, the thing serves as its own trailer. MIIB is an over-glorified infomercial, but what did we expect from Barry Sonnenfeld? His last movie, Big Trouble, was an inflated Fritos advert."
"I'm listenin'."
"The thing? It works as its own neuralizer. It's this large flash of light that goes off in your face. After it's over you can barely recall anything that's happened (like, what became of Johnny Knoxville's character?) Not that anything interesting happens, anyway.
It's not an awful or excruciating experience. In fact, I liked the fleeting images I saw, they just didn't mean anything to me. I could have gotten the same results by flipping through the storybook in a supermarket checkout lane. It's a swift little diversion that kills time till that next pitcher of beer. Men in Black 2 is an inconsequential afterthought that's less inspired, yet very similar in every way, to the first film. And, I didn't care for that first film too much.
We still have the quotable dialogue from the trailer that's grown tired before it hits the screen. The look is still at such a height of cartoonish buffoonery that it's too glaringly sweet to take serious, like a strawberry ice cream-filled Bon-Bon. This subject matter could be of some importance, but it fails to supply anything new. It's as if the real Men in Black came and gave the producers an ultimatum concerning their project. They must have said, 'It either looks unbelievable in every sense of the word, or you'll all come up missing. Natch.' That's one of the reasons I never liked the first Men in Black. It had all this potential to be a great f*cking movie, but it looks three-shades away from being a Saturday morning kid's show.
Honestly, here, I just don't get it. I know it's short because they did a super rush job fearing the potential strikes that never occurred. Yet, they obviously put a lot of effort into the project. In five years, couldn't they have come up with a storyline? There's nothing here; it's an apparition, a transparency. If I held it up to a sliding glass patio door, it would disappear. Men in Black 2 is just like Scooby-Doo, why'd they even bother? Oh, I see why: Look at the money it's raking in. I can't believe the American public is so dumb as to buy into this. Eight Legged Freaks didn't even crack the top five and it's a far superior film.
No wonder everybody loves that little pug, he's the only character with any personality. Sure, David Cross comes through with the only truly funny line in the whole movie. Still, I have to question what he's even doing here? He's not playing the same character he played last time around, but he still looks just like David Cross. His participation is pointless, just like the bulk of this hour-long excuse for a Summer Blockbuster."
"Well, you mother-stabber! I haven't heard such hogwash in all my days. I loved it. That sh*t blew my mind. I was on the floor with excitement. You, my sorry, stupid friend, are going to die for what you've said here tonight!" Ol' Billy Dooku clicked back the hammer on his gun, his finger poised and ready for some good ol' fashioned killin'.
Just then, as my eyes winced tight, we heard that familiar Men in Black theme song come over the house system...Except, the words had been changed; "Nod your head, Mopshoe's coming! Nod your head, Mopshoe's coming!"
I opened my eyes in time to see Kelly, inventor of the Mopshoetm, come swinging down from the banister, "Yah! It's Mopshoe!"
More commonly referred to as Mopshoe, Kelly wore two of those things on his feet. He kicked Billy in the face, and then landed on the old man's stomach were he proceeded to do a clever little dance, "Don't worry, The Orange, I'll clean up this mess!"
"Get off me, ya ol' mopshoe!" Billy tossed Mopshoe to one side, raising his gun in the air. I heard Kelly cry out, "Run, The Orange, run!" I took off through the riverboat, never turning back. Just as I hit the stairwell, I heard a gunshot go off. Then I heard the cry of the Mopshoe. I'm not sure what happened, but I was safe!
Conclusion:
So, here I am, safe and sound. I don't know if I'll ever get out of the desert, or what became of Mopshoe. But, I will continue my trek. Maybe I'll forget about Miss Gyllenhaal all together and just drink Vodka till I pass out and die. Sounds like a plan to me.
In honor of Mopshoe's bravery, I suggest you click on to www.mopshoe.com and "Clean up your act." Everyone needs a mopshoe. They're fun, and inexpensive, too. Until next time...See ya!
Oh, yeah...And if you see Bag, put some good sloppy leftovers in him for me, will ya?
Thanks.
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