Werewolf climbs the corporate ziggurat
I’m thinking of the friendly pitbull that sits at attention upon my feet, trying to get me away from my stand-up work desk
Werewolf tears open the god chamber atop the ziggurat, grabs the fleshy oligarch within, bites his head off
I’m piloting the flying saucer into position at just the right kill distance to deploy the new experimental lightning weapon
Werewolf looks up to see his own crazed face reflected in the surface of my flying saucer
I see the pitbull’s placid, eager face looking up into mine, perfectly still for a bit, and then vibrating with the anticipation of pets, liver treats, walkies, etc.
Werewolf spews forth a stream of napalm analogue to set my saucer on fire
I’m walking the pitbull down a long shadowy hallway
I hit the werewolf with lightning bolt after lightning bolt
The pitbull is strapped into a wicked looking restraint harness as I bathe it in exotic energies causing it to howl piteously
Werewolf writhes and twitches, its eyeballs boil and burst out of their sockets, its fur burns, the napalm glands inside its mutant throat ignite causing the head to explode spectacularly, and the headless flaming werewolf tumbles from the top of the ziggurat down to the street below
Inside the flying saucer I stand at the harmonic control panel, soaked in sweat, eyes bugging with mad grief
A pitbull’s trusting face looks up at me from the recent past
I cry out, “SUGARPLUM!” and then I kamikaze the burning saucer into the ziggurat bringing it down in spectacular fashion, fantastic miniature work, they’ll never make ‘em like this again, swell of music, staff roll-
-and then I’m burning in hell. There’s been some confusion and collusion and collision of real life and movie fantasy and a need for some moralistic afterlife of infernal punishment . . . it’s fine.
Really.
It’s all fine.
Beelzebub has this noisy swarm of big ass flies chewing through my flesh as I sit in lava while reading a newspaper review of Ziggurat City Werewolf Saga, the movie of my life it turns out. The reviewer isn’t impressed, dismisses the picture as a tired old mad scientist creature feature full of bad miniatures and even worse acting. The critic-a William D. Tucker of the blogosphere of Earth-took especial exception to the fact that the giant werewolf monster suit didn’t look anything like the pitbull Sugarplum, that it just looked like a standard issue wolf man thing.
Actually, I don’t entirely disagree.
I had hoped for something more atmospheric. A bit of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. A bit of King Kong. A bit of Bergman’s Persona. A bit of George Pal.
But we did it fast and cheap.
You know.
Like a human life.
Like a dog’s life.
But people want to dress things up, make ‘em more special than they really are, so I guess we kind of fucked it all up in that respect.
As Beelzebub’s flies chew into my heart and lungs, I have a premonition that next time I’ll reincarnate as a pitbull.
Maybe I’ll get a chance to do a contemporary remake with state of the art computer effects.
Or not.
Either way, I figure I’ll end up back in some kind of hell . . .
