Run, Rabbit, Run

It was a strange night. The not funny black comedian was set to host, of course. The one whose show was canceled because no one fucking watched it. But they had to have someone who was black, at least. Representation is everything. Efforts to find someone who was black, gay, and disabled, failed. 

"Well, he looks gay," the producer said to the other producer, who huffed. 

So, it was decided, he'd host. They wanted to write the jokes for him, but he insisted to write them himself saying he thought it wrong to tell Jew-written jokes, considering the political climate. His jokes are like those that a child tugs on your pantleg to tell you. Only, not funny or cute.

"Fuck," Leon sighed taking a drag from a Camel. He was old and fat. An apology of wrinkles and misplaced moles. He looked something like a walrus with hair and no tusks. The walrus who ate all the oysters. "The show is going to bomb," he prophesized. 

Leon and Tony were the producers. Tony was gay. His asshole was like the Lincoln Tunnel. Neither of them were a woman nor a person of color, so they were in hot shit enough without the show being a dud. Critics were already panning the show for being non-inclusive, despite the host. Though Tony could argue that he was gay and part black—his grandparents were from Sicily. And they had that weird bitch from Wicked presenting two awards. There was guaranteed viewership, he could say. Rest on his laurels. But still, a producer wants his show to go well. They own everything they touch.  

Hollywood is full of givers and takers. Leon and Tony were no different. Leon was a giver, and Tony was a taker. They both loved assholes. No asshole in Hollywood is sacred. But people in power either give or they take. Sodomy is a language. One of their fuckboy performers was a taker. He was going to perform a song in his underwear and act like he could play guitar. It was all symbolic.

"This is a giant fucking turd. Something strange was in the air," Leon groused. 

Tony couldn't sit on his ass anymore, so he sat on an airplane neck pillow. He had colon cancer. Too much toxic lube over the years, maybe. They removed his rectum and replaced it with a new model. But that one didn't work out, so he was in between rectums, waiting on a new one.

Leon couldn't put his finger on what was wrong, but his psychic warned him to pull out of the show. He explained to her that it wasn't something you can just pull out of. It was a big paycheck, and he owed alimony to three wives, child support for five kids, and he had several Taiwanese gay boys to support. He was already slumming it living in Burbank, for godsakes.

Leon and Tony sat in the front row in their tuxedos. They were all smiles on camera, waving like dignitaries. Their solid gold cufflinks blinging. They were both on their phones planning where they would be for the afterparty. Scheduling visits. Appearances. Neither of them liked what they did anymore, but they did it like they were producing machines. Truthfully, they stopped liking or disliking things years ago. Food. Sex. You name it. They both were once drug addicts, strung out in the 70's and 80s, but got clean in the 90's. Producers don't get the recognition they're due, but inside of Hollywood, they are known. They are the powerbrokers and this is their town and it's their fucking show. 

Everyone who was anyone was there. And a lot of people who were not anyone, who somehow got a ticket. Like women with cartoon faces who were married to celebrities and did a reality TV show until they went dark after making a bunch of creepy tweets about liking watching kids do splits. Or like wanting to watch kids give birth. And strange references to pizza. 

The doors behind the last guest were locked shut by a remote device secretly installed by a saboteur weeks earlier. Unbeknownst to Leon or Tony, the original actress cast to play Shosanna Dreyfus, who had been raped by Harvey Weinstein, their dear friend who took the fall for a hundred years of sin, their fat fucking Jesus, or FFJ, affectionately, as they called him in their Jew circle, was the one who locked the doors. 

Shosanna wasn't her real name. That was a character, of course. She raced up to the camera room with her .22 Sicario with attached suppressor and shot the film crew dead before they knew what was happening. They were a part of this. Guilty in their efforts in the proliferation of Hollywood's sickness. It had to be done to pull this off. Had she let any one of them go, they would have called the authorities who would have responded and possibly thwarted her plan. 

Shosanna had long-since stopped being who she was and became obsessed with the character she was cast to play in the movie until she was that character. She had a psychotic breakdown during the shooting of the film and was replaced by another actress. But she was Shosanna, hidden beneath the floorboards of a French farmhouse where her entire family was shot to death by invasive Nazis—only she escaped, barefoot, and ran through the pasture to the woods.

Colonel Landa could have hunted her down, but he did not. He let her run. Run, rabbit, run, he laughed under his breath as she faded into the nearby woods. In all his confidence and amusement, he figured he would catch her later. Allowing her to run away wasn't an act of kindness, it was deliberate and would only further the suspense and the thrill of the hunt. That is how sociopaths get off. She was barefoot on purpose. The director had a foot fetish. Everyone in Hollywood is a pervert—either on drugs, or sex fiends, or both. 

So, there she was watching the depravity unfold below. Watching the sodomites and the cuckolds and the gays and queers and the pedophiles do their annual fucking dance. Watching them congratulate themselves and each other and give themselves fancy awards and shun those who do not play along with their wicked game. 

She scowled down upon them with scorn and anger that God must have had for Sodom and Gomorrah. From her eyes there could have been lasers, fireballs, or .50 caliber machine gun bullets ripping them apart. She fantasized there from that little window and she reached her hand out and stabbed each and every one of them with her invisible knife like she was O.J. Ripped their heads off their shoulders. Smashed their smug, smirking faces. 

Years she spent praying for an earthquake to come, a tsunami, anything that would wipe the Hollywood cesspool off the map. But praying didn't do any good. God wanted her to be the instrument of His will. So she set a plan in action—the plan that mirrored her role as Shosanna Dreyfus, where she killed all the Nazis in one fell swoop. In one burning theatre. She worked on the plan for years and it took all this time to set in place—15 years to be exact. They would all pay for what happened to her. Reap what they have so wickedly sown. 

But the foreplay ended when she saw that security learned that the doors were not just shut—they were locked. She saw them on cameras she had installed a month earlier. 15 years of meticulous preparation was about to unfold in the most Hollywood of ways. This was the flood. The great purge. Long overdue. This was the climax. The long-awaited big-bang-baby. 

She pressed two buttons and there were a series of explosions that began at those locked doors, which repelled anyone trying to get in. Flammable chairs and carpets lit on fire as though Hell came up through the floor. The flames licked up the walls. The sprinklers had been disabled and did nothing but stare down upon the mayhem that unfolded below. Botox faces burned. Silicone tits sizzled. Fake hair weaves fried, and Brazilian butt jobs burst out of the asses of hundred-thousand-dollar dresses. Tuxedos incinerated. Barren wombs screamed.

Shosanna had stashed fireworks for special effects. They went off like the 4th of July. Every actor who had ever played a tough guy or superhero ran like a bitch for the exits only to find them locked. Self-proclaimed witches burned, wailing and crying real tears, at last. Real emotions, finally, in their greatest performance of all. They trampled each other as the place burned to the ground. No longer virtue signaling. No longer shouting their abortion. No longer prideful. 

Deconstructed. 

"Ashes to ashes," Leon resolved still sitting in the front row, calm as clam. He was an old Jew and suffering was a part of life. He was the only one in the room who took it well. He figured it was a justifiable fate and had long expected that something like this would happen. Parties don't last forever. This was God's wrath, he knew. 

He lit another cigarette and told himself he should have heeded the advice of his psychic. Tony abandoned him and was somewhere with his blown-out asshole trying to fight the crowd to get out like a drowning rat. Music played. 

David Bowie's "Cat People," of course.  

The film rolled from Shosanna's camera room. It was performance art. She was broadcasting it live. It was justified. Hollywood was a cesspool. Long ago, it became a sick den of pedophiles and rapists. One that coddled every ill in society and glorified sin with every movie it released—all for profit. It was infested with Satanic, un-American communists, and depraved, anal-spelunking malefactors. Ass cowboys, carpet munchers, and reprobates. On the screen they could see her face from the movie, before it burned with them. Laughing with the music. It was her last laugh. The whole Academy burned to the ground and she laughed. 

Fuck them all. Satisfaction is never as sweet as it is planned, though she still enjoyed what she saw and left with a clear conscious through a fire escape. There was a cherry-red 63 Corvette convertible outside right where she left it—license plates—RNRBTRN. Run, rabbit, run. 

She drove up the Pacific Highway to forget about life for a while. Hollywood sizzled and hissed behind her. The bitter smell of revenge was still pleasurably in her nose. She stopped in dive bars and diners, and cheap but clean motels. People asked her if she heard what happened. She could hardly contain her smile. 

"Tragic," she replied with no emotion. Nothing in her eyes. No remorse. No regret.

Eventually, she might settle in Washington, she thought, maybe buy a cabin, maybe raise rabbits and buy a carbine rifle to keep them free of predators. Someone has to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Someone has to kill the coyotes.

Au revoir, Shosanna!