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Take a break from the hectic news of Hollywood with our weekly look into the world of "what if". Fresh fan fiction happens weekly here at Cinema Blend on Short Story Saturday. This is our latest short story entry... "Corey Feldman and the Legend of Margarita Mack".
Final warning: None of what follows is real. This is a work of fiction. Don't take it too seriously.
This fedora makes me look like a circus hipster. Or it would, if not for the little white index card I wrote “press” on before I stuck it in the brim. Thanks to that I look like one of the kids from Newsies grew up, forgot to shave for a year, and then became a circus hipster. It’s a small difference, but an important one.
Both the hat and the card are there because Corey Feldman wants them there. Rest assured I don’t normally plan my wardrobe with input from the star of License to Drive. Right now, though, I have no choice. My editor, a deranged Ayahuasca addict whose sole claim to jounalistic fame is as the inventor of the term “torture porn”, assigned me to cover Feldman’s forty-third birthday party for Cinema Blend. I don’t think he actually wants to publish whatever I end up writing about it. Why would he? It’s Corey Feldman. He’s not even the good Corey.
You know why I’m really walking up this driveway answering the question: What would Humphrey Bogart look like in a Hawaiian shirt? I think my editor wants me dead. He’s too afraid of my vicious temper to fire me and I’m too afraid of my five bowls a day hookah habit to quit. Given those parameters, a workplace accident would seem the only way left to break this impasse. Why not? Mouth Devereaux’s McMansion time-share is as good a place to die as any.
So I didn’t argue when he told me where I was going, and I didn’t argue when he told me I had to wear this stupid hat. Corey had some trouble last year with the reporter who was brought in to cover his forty-second birthday party, and only agreed to allow me inside his forty-third if I wore some sort of clear, but generally idiotic identifier. According to the former Goonie, “he won’t be able to trick me into lookin’ stupid if I can see him coming.” Somehow I don’t think I’ll have to trick him.
I step on Corey’s rented porch and knock on his door with the all brazen energy of a nubile young co-ed taking her first turn around a stripper pole. I may not want to be here, but I’m a goddamn professional. The door opens and I’m immediately accosted by a woman so slathered in beauty products that at first I’m convinced she’s a female impersonator. That is, of course, ridiculous. No male to female transsexual would go this far, no one could ever believe in anyone wearing that much eyeliner.
The female female impersonator lurches towards me and grabs my collar, slurring something about how much fun she’s having as she pulls me in and slams the door behind us.
I cough, choking on the cloud of glitter that erupts from her body as she moves. Temporarily blinded by this storm of sparkle I’m unable to react as she reaches up and plucks my hat off my head.
“I’m having fun!” she says again before forcing my hat over her buoyantly blonde curls and disappearing into the depths of, what I assume, is supposed to be the party.
I raise my hand feebly in protest, but she’s already gone.
I briefly consider following the trail of glitter to retrieve my Feldman-mandated head covering only to decide it can’t hurt to find a drink first.
With intoxication weighing on my mind, I push through a crowd which appears to consist solely of heavily perfumed women wearing white bikinis with glued on angel wings. Normally thrusting myself into a group this female and this scantily clad would be a pleasure, but each of them grabs me by the arm and says, “I’m having fun!” as I shoulder my way past. It’s not exactly the best environment for surreptitious groping.
The sea of excessively tan skin parts to reveal a living room, empty save for a massive stack of speakers and a platform on which someone has constructed a DJ booth. Corey’s there surrounded by a group of three men, none of whom wear ridiculous hats. Given all the audio equipment you’d expect there to be music, but so far the party’s silent except for the steady thrum of unsteady strippers reaffirming their enjoyment to anyone who happens to walk past. “I’m having fun!” another one says as I stop and consider my options.
Maybe it would be wiser to avoid Corey until after I retrieve my hat, but I don’t get the chance to dive back in to the Kissing Potion corral. Corey spots me, probably because I’m the only guy in the building he hasn’t met, and leaps over the front of the DJ booth like one of the Duke boys sliding across the hood of the General Lee.
“Bro!” he shouts merrily as he runs towards me. I flinch as he skids to a stop and wraps his arms around my shoulders, locking me up in a massive hug. “Welcome to the Feldmansion!” he says while beaming a mile-wide smile. “You’re going to have fun! I’m already having fun! We have the biggest celebrities here, you know, this is a Corey Feldman party so what else? Happy birthday to me right?” he laughs as if he’s said something funny, though I can’t figure out what it is.
The guys up in the DJ booth have followed him and before I can open my mouth to respond, he’s introducing them.
“Meet the celebrities, but don’t ask them for autographs,” Corey says. I look around wondering where he’s hiding Ben Affleck, but no one else is in evidence.
Corey continues, “This here,” he says pointing to a large, middle-aged Mexican man, “is Hotsauce Hank, lead cowbell for Willy Nelson.” I nod in Hank's direction.
“Next to him is Alligator Andy, the best damn triangle player in the world, currently on tour with U2.” Andy and I bump fists. It's the right thing to do when you meet someone named Alligator Andy.
“Last but not least, that there is Frosty Farris, he rocks the hell out of a tambourine on the road with Christina Aguilera.” Farris glares at me like he wants me dead, so I make it a point not to react. "He takes his job pretty seriously," Corey says.
“And you,” says Corey as if he’s only now actually gotten around to looking at me. “You… who the hell are you? I don’t remember inviting you.”
“Well…” I’m on the verge of explaining my hat’s kidnapping by a female female impersonator when Corey says…
“Wait, you’re not the press are you?” Before I can respond he reaches behind his back and pulls a gun out of his pants. Now it’s pointed directly at my head. “You’re not the motherfucking press are you? Because I told that bitch at Cinema Blend that if he sent one of his reporters over here he’d better be wearing a goddamn hat. And I don’t see no fucking hat on your head.”
“Um…” I stammer. In that moment I realize I wasn’t actually serious about wishing for death and decide I very, very much want to live if only so I can smoke another bowl from my mini-hookah when I get back to my car. “No man,” the words tumble out of my mouth in a torrent of panic and flop sweats. “I ain’t no stinkin press! I hate those cats!”
“Then who are you?” Corey demands. “Why don’t I know you?”
Who am I kidding? I'm going to die. I guess that's alright, smoking hookah in a car is hard. I was probably going to drop coals on my lap and set myself on fire later today anyway. Still, I have to try, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Corey, dude of course you know me.” I force a laugh. Not easy to do with a .44 resting on your forehead. “I’m uh, Jimmy Buffet’s harp player.” Corey looks perplexed so I add, “Come on, you know me man! We did that night with those girls, you were badass! I’m Margarita Mack!”
Corey glances down at my bright orange Hawaiian shirt, before dropping the gun, bursting into another mile-wide smile and shouting “Margarita Mack! How the hell you been bro!” After enduring another hug he ushers me over to the DJ booth. It’s big enough that all five us, me and his celebrity friends, can fit inside it.
“Well I guess that press asshole isn’t coming,” Corey says. “Good. Was going to have Corey's Angels take him out to the cabana and lap dance him into unconsciousness. Now they can relax.”
I briefly consider revealing my identity, but before I can embrace the possibility of stripper nirvana Corey presses a button on an amplifier and the party disappears.
Now I'm standing in a DJ booth in the middle of a cavern. Unsure of how I should react to this I turn to my companions and find them holding weapons. Frosty Farris has some sort of massive, rusty crossbow. Alligator Andy has what looks a lot like a medieval battle axe. Hotsauce is holding a sharpened baseball bat. Corey, well Corey's just pulled the most badass looking Samurai sword I've ever seen out of a blood red sheath.
"Wait, what?" I say. It's an appropriate question, but no one seems to be listening.
Corey steps out of the DJ booth and takes a couple practice swings with his sword before turning to me and asking, "What's up Margarita, you not strapped?"
"Wait, what?" I respond, hoping someone will hear me this time.
"No problemo," Corey says as he pulls the .44 out of his pants and hands it to me hilt first. I take it, more out of reflex than anything, and only halfway listen as he says, "...fires wooden bullets. It's just my backup, I rarely need it, you can use it."
Then he nods at his musician entourage, spins around and jogs off into the dimly lit depths of a large tunnel.
With Corey gone Hotsauce takes charge. "Ok Margarita," he says. "You're used to killing these bastards to protect your band's front man, but this is a little different. Thanks to Corey we're taking the fight to them."
"Hell yeah we are!" shouts Alligator with an accompanying fist pump.
"Wait, what?" I say, mostly because my mouth is no longer capable of saying anything else.
"Here's how it goes," Hotsauce continues. "We use their lust for fame against them. Feld-dog goes ahead and they're drawn to him like the moth to the flame. Then, while he's keepin' em busy we hit em from behind."
"It gonna be a slaughter!" Shouts Alligator Andy.
"Wait, what?" I say, but there's no one there to hear me, the three musicians have already raced off down the tunnel. I have no choice but to follow.
I hear guttural sounds. Then screams. We burst out of the dark into another cavern, a huge cavern, lit by dozens of torches. A man stands in the entryway. He's very pale and wearing a rather nicely tailored grey suit with a freshly pressed white shirt underneath. Suddenly there's a red stain spreading beneath his crisp white buttons and one of Frosty's arrows is sticking out of his chest.
"What the fuck?" I say. They still aren't listening. Actually I'm not listening either because three more similarly pale, nicely dressed men have just taken the other's place, only, these have fangs. My companions spring into action and now those three are dead too.
"Something's not right here," Hotsauce says. I'm a little relieved. Finally someone else gets it. I start to nod as he says "there should have only been one of them, the rest should be on the other side of the cavern, busy with Feld-dog. "
That wasn't exactly the response I was hoping for, but I don't have time to voice my own concerns as dozens of well dressed, fanged individuals leap out from behind the rocks around us. I don't wait to see what happens, I turn around and run back the way I came. Fuck the story. Fuck professionalism. I want out.
I run but don't get anywhere. I'm bumping around in the dark now, completely lost. I stop a moment to piss on a cave wall. It was that or my pants. I fantasize about my hookah. Right now thinking of that bowl waiting for me in my Geo Metro is the only thing keeping me going. That and a rapidly rising fear of death. I go to zip up my pants with my left hand and realize I'm still holding Corey's gun. At least that's something. I guess if things get rough I could shoot someone. No Mack, I tell myself, not someone. Vampires. These are holy shit suck your blood vampires. If I want to get back to my hookah, I'd better aim for the heart.
I keep running and it starts getting lighter. I skid around a corner and into a whole mess of vampires. They have Feldman. They're holding him down, sinking their sick fangs into his arms and his legs. Blood is everywhere. Corey's moaning. He's not dead yet. "I'm sorry man," I say. "I was wrong. You're the good Corey." I raise his gun and start firing.
I'm not sure if I hit anything, but I slip in the blood and land on my back. Blood is everywhere. I keep firing from the ground. Vampires are rushing towards me, falling. I'm out of bullets. Oh god, they're getting close. I scramble backwards into the dark. My fingers close around something metal and sharp… then everything's a blur.
The next thing I know I'm standing and holding Corey's sword. I'm covered in gore. Surrounded by headless bodies. I stumble back the way I came. I really, really need to smoke a bowl.
Six Months Later…
The crowd roars as he raises his hands above his head. This is the moment they've been waiting for. Someone throws a plastic bird on stage. The band doesn't notice. I guess they're used to it. Jimmy points out over the throng, leans towards his mike and sings, "Nibblin' on sponge cake, watchin' the sun bake. All of those tourists covered with oil…"
I sit behind him and pluck halfheartedly at my harp as the crowd goes wild. I don't actually know how to play it. It doesn't matter, it's not mic'd. While Jimmy entertains his liquored up fans I sit and watch, well, everything. It's my first night on the job and I don't want to screw up. You never know where the attack could come from. All I know is it's coming. They're drawn to fame. Like moths to a flame. When they make their move on Jimmy Buffet, I'll be ready. It beats being a reporter. Anything's better than working for Cinema Blend.
I'm Margarita Mack Rawden and I may not be the best harp player in the business, but I'm definitely the most dangerous.
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