Casey Jones and The Fifteen Foot Fascism (Comic Book)
Click on the first page to look through the nine pages of “Casey Jones and The Fifteen Foot Fascism” Issue One
Casey Jones, LA’s premiere indifferent, reckless, bizarre technophobe private investigator has a home on the internet. This site collects the feature length movie scripts, short stories and novellas detailing the life and times of a one of millions LA citizen. Since the stories are not written in chronological order, they will not be posted in such.
Click on the first page to look through the nine pages of “Casey Jones and The Fifteen Foot Fascism” Issue One
CASEY JONES AND THE LAST THING YOU WOULD WANT TO DO WITH YOUR TIME
The air outside the Claim Jumper is just how I remember, and described, it earlier. Pay attention. As I contemplate my fake story that I’ve decided to assume is true beyond all logic, I hear the familiar sound of a conversion van puttering down the nearly empty street. It is then followed by the familiar sight of said conversion van nearly plowing into me.
The side door to the van opens. I recognize the ‘women’ crammed inside. It’s the Studio City Bombers, ball breaking beasts of women that make their living as ‘bitch bashers’ aka roller derby ladies.
“Get in the conversion van, Casey.” Ah, the lovely, gruff tones of my three-pack-a-day ex-girlfriend, Big Mama.
“Hey! You stopped calling me ‘needle dick.’ That’s sweet.”
How I missed the feeling of those meat hooks grabbing me by the collar and dragging me into a conversion van full of sweaty, hairy beasts and then driving off.
“Where’s my money?” Ouch. That’s a punch in the face.
“Tire Shredder, Bone Masher, Meat Grinder…and, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
Big Mama punches me in my fat gob again.
“That’s an interesting name.”
And now my mouth fills up with blood. I started dating the lovely Big Mama, the big, big, big, big-big-big, fuzzy-haired, rock hard woman of might after a miserable lack of judgment following a particularly hard case involving the Chatsworth Freak Show and an entire bottle of vodka administered anally without my consent. But I’ve said too much already.
“Mamma Jamma, search through his pockets!”
Oh, yes. That and the large sum of money I stole from her. And might I add that Mamma Jamma has the manliest hands to ever go through my pants. While I’ve been conscious at least. I’ve seen pictures…you know what? Forget I said that last part.
“He’s broke, Big Mama. He just has an empty burrito wrapper and a half scratched lottery ticket.”
“What’s in the purse, Casey.”
“Nothing you’d want, Big Mama. Just make up. You know, that stuff you’ve never seen.”
Getting punched in the mouth repeatedly is no picnic. Quite the opposite, really. Instead of finding a nice, cool, grassy spot in the park with a lady that is easy enough to let you take here out but not easy enough to let you take her home, laying a table cloth on the ground and enjoying some tasty sandwiches, potato salad and watermelon, your mouth fills up with blood, your teeth get kind of loose and your eyes well up.
Getting punched in the mouth is also quite tricky in that the person hitting you in the mouth almost never gets just the mouth. There’s almost always that knuckle that catches your nose. So, really, you’re being punched in two of the four “worst areas in which to be punched.” Or, I should say, I am being punched in those areas.
Mamma Jamma empties the contents of the purse onto the floor of the van. I hear their clatter over the noise of my nose breaking.
“Big Mama, you need to take a look at this.”
“What? I’m punching here.”
“She’s right, Big Mama. This is weird.”
“Something Casey Jones has is acting weird. Somehow, I’m not surprised. Stay on your back, pencil dick.”
Big Mama drops me. I immediately wobble my way to my knees, as far as I can actually make it, to see what’s so weird about a mildly tacky purse full of broken compacts. What’s particularly weird about said compacts is that they seem to be glowing blue and arranging themselves in a circle. Just as I thought, evil, Beruvian soul medusa mirrors.
While the massive collection of bulk and back hair stare at the magical wonder of broken compacts, I scan the outside of the van. We seem to have stopped in the middle of the street, which means we’ll be honked at anytime soon. That’s fine, though, because said honking would probably stop that Beruvian mirror demon from turning that tranny’s soul into stone.
@1 year ago
CASEY JONES AND THE BLACK CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON
When you have as many of them as I do, it can be very difficult to define the phrase ‘bad day,’ but let me give it a shot. A bad day starts when you fall asleep during a stake out in West Los Angeles by the 405 and wake up in a dumpster full of dead hookers in West Hollywood at three thirty in the ante meridiem. Good definition if I do say so myself.
My name is Casey Jones and I am the latest in a long line of Los Angeles private eyes. My current case has, up until this point, involved me tailing the wife of morning Latin disc jockey “El Cabra.” You know him. He’s that grinning jackass that gives you the thumbs up from the back of busses when you get stuck behind them East of La Cienega. Yeah. That guy. Seems he thinks his wife, who, by the way, is way to hot for his likes, has been cheating on him. And for a guy who’s name means “The Goat” in English, he’s pretty right on about this lady.
My job has been to find proof of the infidelity. And I did that on the first day. I hate it when they make it easy. It’s not that I like working; far from it. I just don’t like it when they make it hard to pad my bill. Since I’ve been on the case, she’s been dating Jerome Jermaine, whom you’ve probably never heard of. His big claim to fame, if you can call it that, was staring in a number of ‘70s blaxploitation horror films that even the most Asian of UCLA film students haven’t heard of. Seriously, there’s not even a Wikipedia page about them. And Wikipedia has a thousand words on Monster in my Pocket.
Last night, I trailed Mrs. Goat from their new, four-story house in K-Town (thank God for gentrification) to The Nuart. I parked in the 7/11 parking lot across the street and watched her meet up with Jerome outside the theater. To show how classy this guy is, it seems as though they are there to watch his 1974 ‘classic’ The Black Creature from the Black Lagoon. I’ve seen it. Not actually half bad. Some honkies try to build a lagoon-side country club for rich white people, and naturally they try to exclude The Black Creature from the Black Lagoon, so he starts killing their honky asses. Though, I do find it highly suspect that Black Creature from the Black Lagoon knows karate.
I’m never going to get the image of Mrs. Goat and BCftBL playing tonsil hockey out of my brain. Partially because it’s my screen saver, partially because he’s twenty years older than her and partially because I’m kind of into that type of thing.
From experience, I knew I had the entirety of the movie (IMDb lists it’s running time at 88 minutes) to hang out. Seems Mr. BCftBL likes to watch his movies all the way through to the end. He’s self-absorbed and predictable. I like that. Knowing this information, I ended up passed out in my graffiti covered hatchback, or “Emperor Tod-mobile” as the kids are calling it these days. If I don’t get my standard 15 hours of sleep, I’m just a wreck in the morning.
Unfortunately for me, I when wake up, I’m not in the driver’s seat of my ‘car.’ I’m in a dumpster behind the Red Lemon on Santa Monica in West Hollywood.
@1 year ago
CASEY JONES AND THE THING THAT IS NOT A BERUVIAN MIRROR DEMON
I snatch up the compacts and drop them in the purse.
“I told you to stay on the ground!”
I can feel Big Mama’s meaty fist rising to punch me in the back of the head, but I know what stops her. She sees a free-floating apparition of a man, translucent and blue, with a cloud of smoke for legs, appearing out of a compact which is held by a particularly ugly man-woman-thing. The Beruvian demon shoots a beam of energy down his/her throat.
I bolt from the conversion van and onto the street, purse in hand. The roller derby team makes a quick get away, as this is probably far too odd for them. Next time they kidnap me, I’ll have to bring that up.
“Hold up, demon!”
“Wait your turn, tranny.”
“Don’t let the purse confuse you. I’m dressed like a man.”
I’ll never understand Beruvian mirror demons, because that’s what made him drop just about the ugliest woman-thing I’ve ever seen.
“I sense something on you. What do you have in the purse?”
“Seven pounds of corn beef hash. My turn. What brings a nice Beruvian mirror demon like you to a stink-hole town like this?”
“Beruvian mirror demon? That’s ridiculous. It sounds like something you just made up.”
“That’s right! I did make that up,” the blood chokes my throat. I wobble a little from my probable concussion. “Then, might I ask, what are you?”
“Did you bring the mirrors here!? Well, you’ll never get them in a circle around me, hunter!”
I don’t know what that means. What I do know is this: One - I’m about to pass out. Two - I’ve got a purse full of broken mirrors that seem to magically arrange themselves in a circle. Three - I’m facing a large, incorporeal demon-genie thing that seems to be charging at me. Four - The incorporeal demon-genie thing doesn’t want said mirrors to be arranged in a circle around him.
So, I do what any other rationally thinking person would do. I scream like a girl and throw the contents of my purse at my attacker. He screams as the circle of mirrors seems to suck him back into the seventh, unbroken mirror, held by the tranny, who regains consciousness just in time to see me save him/her.
Seeing one of these things get sucked into a mirror is about all my newly developed vertigo could take. I drop to my knees when I’m sure I don’t need to run anymore. The tranny hooker steps over the seven mirrors and cradles my wobbling frame in its arms.
“You saved my life,” the thick, musky tone of a dock worker tells me. “You deserve a freebee.”
Correction, Mamma Jamma’s hands are now the second manliest hands to go through my pants. Time to pass out.
@1 year ago
CASEY JONES AND THE DUMPSTER FULL OF DEAD HOOKERS AND THE DINER FULL OF WEREWOLVES
As my eyes open and the fog that is my sight begins to clear, I smack my lips to try to get rid of that familiar copper taste in my mouth. Yep, I’ve been chloroformed. Which is unnecessary because once I’m asleep, you could dump my body in British Columbia and I wouldn’t wake up on the way there. Judging from the smell of art erasers and gay pride, I realize I’m in West Hollywood. Further judging by spaghetti stained walls that rise up around me, I’m in a dumpster. And judging by the hard mushy-ness underneath me, I’m lying a number of dead bodies.
If the warm bulge on my thigh, combined with the fabric I can feel on my arms and legs, uncovered as they always are due to my Hawaiian shirt and shorts wardrobe, is any indication, I’m on top of man who is dressed as a woman. Given that the bulge is still kind of warm, I’m guessing the he-she under me hasn’t been dead for long. Thank you Law and Order: Special Victims Unit for that tasty, little tidbit. I reluctantly roll over and count six dead bodies. If they’re all men, then some of them were better at being women than most women I know. But not Ms. Five-o-clock Shadow that I’m laying on.
I check Ms. Five-o-clock Shadow’s watch to find out the time. 3:30 am. I don’t know what disturbs me more: the dumpster full of dead tranny hookers, the fact that it took an hour longer than it usually does for me to wake up after being chloroformed or the fact that the dead tranny hooker under me still wears a calculator watch. I quickly contemplate the theory that I’ve traveled back to 1987 somehow, but decide that it’s very unlikely that I have done so. Normally, when I time travel, I get this distinct ringing sound in my ears.
A quick dislodging and purse snatching later, I find myself behind the Red Lemon on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. The Claim Jumper’s near here. Where else can a man such as myself get a burger at four in the morning while holding six dead hooker purses? Pretty much anywhere in West Hollywood, I suppose.
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
My booth at The Claim Jumper is dismal, just the way I like it. When I walk into a terrible diner at four in the morning, I want to be absolutely sure that my silverware is dirty, my food has been spit in and that the waitress has at least six STDs.
Speaking of, I ask for a burrito, which they don’t serve, and end up getting a cup of coffee and some eggs, bacon and hash browns. When she walks away, I get to purse diving. The contents of the purses tell me very little. Pretty much what you’d expect to see from the purse of six dead he/shes. Compacts with garish make-up, wallets empty of cash and identification and a tampon, which just confuses the hell out of me.
I arrange the contents of the purses out on the table to better understand the picture of the pickle I’ve gotten myself into. After a few minutes of “why me” and “doesn’t this crap happen to anyone else” and further mumblings of “I wonder where the hell my car is,” I notice I’m not alone in the Claim Jumper. And the others inside notice me as well.
When you’ve been at this as long as I have, you notice the subtle difference between things. For instance, the difference between ‘lit’ and ‘illuminated.’ You’d think such semantic arguments wouldn’t be important, but for a private eye such as myself, they become paramount. Another subtle difference is the one between ‘cokehead’ and ‘werewolf.’
Cokeheads and werewolves are both nocturnal. Cokeheads because they just stay up all the time, and werewolves because three nights out of the week they hunt and stalk until the moon goes down and turn back into humans. I don’t know if you’ve ever turned into a wolf at night, but trust me, it’s an unpleasant and draining experience. You tend to sleep all day long. Like me, I suppose, only without the laziness. The second thing they have in common is the sniffing. The cokeheads do it because the drug they inhale destroys every little thing about the inside of their nose and are relatively unable to filter out the pollutants in the air, causing a constant need to sniff. Werewolves do it because even in human form, their heightened senses remain, even if it is to a lesser degree. Admittedly, in Hollywood, it’s difficult to tell the difference, but not impossible.
So, I’m in a diner full of werewolves. No big deal. It’s not a full moon, so the worst they can do is kill me. Or, at least, I tell myself. It’s kind of hard to concentrate on dead man/woman purse contents when you’ve got roughly twenty human-formed werewolves staring at you. That’s my experience.
I ignore the glaring, glowing red eyes as I focus on the tale unfolding itself in front of me on the table. The dark red lipstick. The compact with the broken mirror. The scuffed up nail clippers. The broken mascara container. The compact with the broken mirror. The other compact with the broken mirror. Another compa…huh. Six dead he/she hookers, six purses devoid of id, and six identical compacts, all with the broken mirror. That’s an interesting coincid—
Sniff. “Hey. Hey, how’s it going?” Eddie Munster, not the Eddie Munster, but a guy that looks like Eddie Munster, only twenty years older, with an eye patch, fifty pounds of former muscle and bald, but other than that, he’s Eddie Munster, sits down on the bench across from me at the booth.
“So much better now that you’re here, My Love. Please tell me you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and marry me.” I pat down my pockets. “Damn. I promise I have a ring, I just didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”
“Yeah, alright. Look, we don’t want any trouble—”
Eddie’s head jerks to the side like a squirrel hearing a pastrami sandwich being thrown to the ground six and a half feet away. Simultaneously, the werewolf nation cocks their heads in the same way. Oh, what I wouldn’t surrender to give a rat’s ass what they’re hearing.
I snap my fingers in front of his face. He snaps to attention. “It’s a good thing you don’t want any trouble, because I’ve got a pocket full of silver bullets.” Oh, how I lie!
Sniff. “Now, how did you know we’re all werewolves?”
“You’re werewolves? I just thought you were cokeheads. You know what they say about cokeheads.”
“Look,” sniff. “We don’t want any trouble, but we’re here having a sort of…support group—” Sniff. “-meeting.” He looks around and licks his lips. Oh. Good. It’s the waitress.
“Here’s your coffee with spit.”
“Spit, huh?”
“Yeah. Not enough?”
“No, that’ll be fine. Say, does that come on the food, to?”
“Not normally. But I’ll hook you up, sweetheart.”
“You know what? That’s okay. I’ll just take the bacon. And if I could get the spit on the side in a cup, that’d be great.”
That lovely grating noise comes from the bottom of her throat. It is quickly followed by an oyster that dangles out of her mouth and over my coffee. And then comes the plop. Following her stately egress.
“So, yeah. Could you leave?” Sniff.
“Oh, are you still here? Look, if you’re going to threaten to eat me—”
“See, that’s just it,” Sniff. That’s what this meeting is for. We’re trying to get it so that we don’t eat people anymore.”
“You want to hear a story?”
“I guess.” Sniff.
“Way back in eighteen ot seven, the Beruvian premiere ordered the creation of seven magical mirrors. Each of these mirrors had the power to turn a person’s soul to stone, or so they say. These mirrors would search the world for the most sorrowful, sad individuals the planet earth has to offer. It would convince them they were beautiful beyond their wildest dreams. Then, slowly, their soul would solidify into granite, and they would die a painful, horrible death.”
Sniff. “Is that true?”
“Probably not. I suppose it could have happened, but I’m pretty sure I just made that up. But, supposing it were true, what do you think the odds are that all seven mirrors would find their way into compact mirrors. Then, what would the odds be of said compacts coming into the possession of seven transvestite hookers on the same stretch of Santa Monica Blvd.?”
“Pretty darn high.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Look, I don’t want to get violent…”
“Fine. I’ll leave. But, remember, and I’m saying this to all of you, if you eat a person, I’ll shoot you with a silver bullet!”
I put the six compacts in the least tacky of the purses, a decision that puts me back a minute, and then I bolt out the door.
@1 year ago