12/14/2017
To whom it may concern,
Martin Higgins asked me to tell you about what happened to Jack Messick and Hank Cropley with regard to Monella Ventures and our recent unpleasantness as depicted in the screenplay SnuffBox. Not only was I there, but, Hell, I helped make it go down. Now they're…what? Bigshot Hollywood picked-to-clicks? Hey, I ain't knocking it. But I sure ain't better off for the wear, and those morons are now making real movies. Most other wannabe flickmakers would kill to be in their shoes.
Oops… I seem to be getting a little ahead of myself.
My boss, Mr. Monella, advised me to give it to you straight, but this is all strictly "off the record and speculative," like that O.J. screenplay tape, right? So here's the pitch.
Two Dipshits Step In it And Come Out Smelling Like A Rose
Oh Mr. boy oh Mr. boy are you a big ball you were outside in your call the dog Once upon a time, two film students decided to hate every Hollywood success story. They work up a gut full of bile and a loser attitude that sends them both successful right into the shitter. That might have been the end of it (as it is for a lot of student moviemakers). In addition to the attitude, they honestly believe they are visionary filmmakers and that going legit in Hollyweird is just a rat's nest of connections, lies, and dumb luck. Well, maybe they were only half nuts.
No psychic could've ever guessed that these two morons would pull their wool up out of the fire before screwing the pooch.
Their film instructor, Professor Howell, was a real piece of work: one of those washout teachers who knows all the angles but never made it himself. He sportbangs some of his choice studentettes but gets his major jollies in the homebrew S&M scene. In his spare time, Howell makes sicko Bondage tapes I sell at the store.
Personally, I wouldn't let him watch my old lady’s cat. And I’m not all that fond of it. But I digress.
A year after graduation, Hank (a flaming asshole of the first order) is working as a video store clerk, and Jack (a simp with a heart) is a fishmonger at Fisherman's Wharf. That is when he's not a mop monkey on one of my porn shoots.
This is a rolling nightmare fairytale for twenty-somethings who want to play hot shit with the big boys. Yeah, yeah, they sent out plenty of grant applications, but it seems that nobody's buying what they're selling.
Looks like a no-win all around, but don't go grabbing your hanky just yet.
One of their hated ex-classmates signs a showy dev deal with a major, which completely honks them off. The boys turn their hate into just enough adrenaline to take on their so-called "breakthrough" documentary about the positive side of Charley Manson's life in the binglehouse. Bad move. They lack the requisite "social skills" to pull it off and truly screw the pooch. I mean like Prison Guard punching, for chrissakes.
Then the Muse (or her sleep-around sister, The Nut Case) steps in.
Hank and Jack get this idea to make a fake snuff film to raise money for their dream art film - some bullshit boiler about a family terrorized by haunted appliances (pure crap-ola). With the help of another ex-classmate, Julie (seriously cute and smarter than both of them), they make a remarkably real-looking fake snuffer. Not that I buy it, per se, but my boss, Sal -- Mr. Monella, that is -- always told me to keep an eye out for weird shit that looks like it doesn't fit in.
Mr. M is sort of an entrepreneur "fitter" if you follow. He plays the big game about five moves down the board, so he knows how all this… stuff… fits together. He's a guy who sees what people really want and how he can get something out of it. He says, "Bring the players in on cue."
You've probably got something that Mr. Monella "fitted" right into your life without you even knowing about it. Trust me on this… you do.
Then Lady Luck picks up where Ms. Muse left off.
Mr. M sees something in Hank and Jack, so he tosses them $50k to make another, better snuff film. They go a little nuts with the cash, flip out trying to imagine what he's really after and fight with each other over nothing. But, for the first time in their lives, they get way clear about what they want and who they are. Jack balks, but Hank sees the big picture and gets with our program full-time.
Hank realizes that his talent is using gut-wrenching images to tell gut-wrenching stories and, as the box office numbers prove, they’re moneymakers. He does his homework and hooks up with a burned-out, alky `Nam vet who's an ex-medic with a load of tales to tell. I know this geezer, Shaky Ray, they call him. War ghosts follow him around and screw with everything. He's a permanent 86 at my store since he filled the place with screaming Mama-sans firing AK-47s.
Not for real, mind you, but ask any of the half-dozen pickle-strokers who say they saw it. It was pants-shitting time. I got there after the cops had left and could still smell gunpowder, smoke, and sweat.
Anyhow, Jack gets cold feet figuring they're being set up to kill this old hooker, Carlotta. He totally freaks when he sees Hank getting comfy with the flow of it all: buying a hot car, an exotic gun, and a rack of clothes from Chess King. Hank rags on Jack for acting like a puss who won't man up and handle his end of the deal. Jack tries to back out of the film deal, but he's got a part to play, and the agreement with Mr. M, although not legal, is most assuredly binding.
Maybe Jack was the flaming asshole all along.
Julie tries to talk Jack into splitting town with his half of the cash, saying they can "disappear" into the woodwork. As if Mr. M is some chump who couldn't find them with three phone calls.
Christ, Mr. M not only knows where Hoffa is, but what he's wearing.
The pot starts to boil, and it's soup. Almost.
Professor Howell sees a copy of the phony snuffer and recognizes Julie, who he always had a major bone for. He calls her, saying an industry contact he knows has seen her student film and wants to meet her. After some flattery and an apology, she buys it and winds up at his house, a suburban cottage complete with a mini-workshop dungeon. Howell is the sort of perv who's careful to cover his tracks until he doesn't, and then he really don't. Like, the neighbors walking around after the fact saying, "he was the last person you'd ever expect!"
Howell had a bug up his ass to be a masked attacker in the new, better snuffer I'm having Hank shoot. He drags in this flip card - his alleged "industry contact" – a sadistic bastard who, in reality, is merely a glorified reader at Global Pics.
The snuff shoot gets AFU and…
Bang, bang, bang. Three winners lose big; three losers win big. I make a midnight mini-van dump into the concrete foundation for the new ballpark, and the wheel turns.
Hank's now the famous one-eyed cinematographer, Jack is on first names with the big-biggies, and Julie just worked with Ethan Cohen in a small but very conspicuous role in his next ensemble piece. Neat.
Me? I got a free ho-ho in Barbados until the concrete hardened behind the dugout, and I picked up a wicked-cool new title: Director of Operations.
I hope this clears things up.
Sincerely,
Reggie D'AngeloProprietor Mr. dog
P.S. By the way, this is a creepy but laugh-out-loud v funny story. Honest to God.
copyright 2024
Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
To whom it may concern,
Martin Higgins asked me to tell you about what happened to Jack Messick and Hank Cropley with regard to Monella Ventures and our recent unpleasantness as depicted in the screenplay SnuffBox. Not only was I there, but, Hell, I helped make it go down. Now they're…what? Bigshot Hollywood picked-to-clicks? Hey, I ain't knocking it. But I sure ain't better off for the wear, and those morons are now making real movies. Most other wannabe flickmakers would kill to be in their shoes.
Oops… I seem to be getting a little ahead of myself.
My boss, Mr. Monella, advised me to give it to you straight, but this is all strictly "off the record and speculative," like that O.J. screenplay tape, right? So here's the pitch.
Two Dipshits Step In it And Come Out Smelling Like A Rose
Oh Mr. boy oh Mr. boy are you a big ball you were outside in your call the dog Once upon a time, two film students decided to hate every Hollywood success story. They work up a gut full of bile and a loser attitude that sends them both successful right into the shitter. That might have been the end of it (as it is for a lot of student moviemakers). In addition to the attitude, they honestly believe they are visionary filmmakers and that going legit in Hollyweird is just a rat's nest of connections, lies, and dumb luck. Well, maybe they were only half nuts.
No psychic could've ever guessed that these two morons would pull their wool up out of the fire before screwing the pooch.
Their film instructor, Professor Howell, was a real piece of work: one of those washout teachers who knows all the angles but never made it himself. He sportbangs some of his choice studentettes but gets his major jollies in the homebrew S&M scene. In his spare time, Howell makes sicko Bondage tapes I sell at the store.
Personally, I wouldn't let him watch my old lady’s cat. And I’m not all that fond of it. But I digress.
A year after graduation, Hank (a flaming asshole of the first order) is working as a video store clerk, and Jack (a simp with a heart) is a fishmonger at Fisherman's Wharf. That is when he's not a mop monkey on one of my porn shoots.
This is a rolling nightmare fairytale for twenty-somethings who want to play hot shit with the big boys. Yeah, yeah, they sent out plenty of grant applications, but it seems that nobody's buying what they're selling.
Looks like a no-win all around, but don't go grabbing your hanky just yet.
One of their hated ex-classmates signs a showy dev deal with a major, which completely honks them off. The boys turn their hate into just enough adrenaline to take on their so-called "breakthrough" documentary about the positive side of Charley Manson's life in the binglehouse. Bad move. They lack the requisite "social skills" to pull it off and truly screw the pooch. I mean like Prison Guard punching, for chrissakes.
Then the Muse (or her sleep-around sister, The Nut Case) steps in.
Hank and Jack get this idea to make a fake snuff film to raise money for their dream art film - some bullshit boiler about a family terrorized by haunted appliances (pure crap-ola). With the help of another ex-classmate, Julie (seriously cute and smarter than both of them), they make a remarkably real-looking fake snuffer. Not that I buy it, per se, but my boss, Sal -- Mr. Monella, that is -- always told me to keep an eye out for weird shit that looks like it doesn't fit in.
Mr. M is sort of an entrepreneur "fitter" if you follow. He plays the big game about five moves down the board, so he knows how all this… stuff… fits together. He's a guy who sees what people really want and how he can get something out of it. He says, "Bring the players in on cue."
You've probably got something that Mr. Monella "fitted" right into your life without you even knowing about it. Trust me on this… you do.
Then Lady Luck picks up where Ms. Muse left off.
Mr. M sees something in Hank and Jack, so he tosses them $50k to make another, better snuff film. They go a little nuts with the cash, flip out trying to imagine what he's really after and fight with each other over nothing. But, for the first time in their lives, they get way clear about what they want and who they are. Jack balks, but Hank sees the big picture and gets with our program full-time.
Hank realizes that his talent is using gut-wrenching images to tell gut-wrenching stories and, as the box office numbers prove, they’re moneymakers. He does his homework and hooks up with a burned-out, alky `Nam vet who's an ex-medic with a load of tales to tell. I know this geezer, Shaky Ray, they call him. War ghosts follow him around and screw with everything. He's a permanent 86 at my store since he filled the place with screaming Mama-sans firing AK-47s.
Not for real, mind you, but ask any of the half-dozen pickle-strokers who say they saw it. It was pants-shitting time. I got there after the cops had left and could still smell gunpowder, smoke, and sweat.
Anyhow, Jack gets cold feet figuring they're being set up to kill this old hooker, Carlotta. He totally freaks when he sees Hank getting comfy with the flow of it all: buying a hot car, an exotic gun, and a rack of clothes from Chess King. Hank rags on Jack for acting like a puss who won't man up and handle his end of the deal. Jack tries to back out of the film deal, but he's got a part to play, and the agreement with Mr. M, although not legal, is most assuredly binding.
Maybe Jack was the flaming asshole all along.
Julie tries to talk Jack into splitting town with his half of the cash, saying they can "disappear" into the woodwork. As if Mr. M is some chump who couldn't find them with three phone calls.
Christ, Mr. M not only knows where Hoffa is, but what he's wearing.
The pot starts to boil, and it's soup. Almost.
Professor Howell sees a copy of the phony snuffer and recognizes Julie, who he always had a major bone for. He calls her, saying an industry contact he knows has seen her student film and wants to meet her. After some flattery and an apology, she buys it and winds up at his house, a suburban cottage complete with a mini-workshop dungeon. Howell is the sort of perv who's careful to cover his tracks until he doesn't, and then he really don't. Like, the neighbors walking around after the fact saying, "he was the last person you'd ever expect!"
Howell had a bug up his ass to be a masked attacker in the new, better snuffer I'm having Hank shoot. He drags in this flip card - his alleged "industry contact" – a sadistic bastard who, in reality, is merely a glorified reader at Global Pics.
The snuff shoot gets AFU and…
Bang, bang, bang. Three winners lose big; three losers win big. I make a midnight mini-van dump into the concrete foundation for the new ballpark, and the wheel turns.
Hank's now the famous one-eyed cinematographer, Jack is on first names with the big-biggies, and Julie just worked with Ethan Cohen in a small but very conspicuous role in his next ensemble piece. Neat.
Me? I got a free ho-ho in Barbados until the concrete hardened behind the dugout, and I picked up a wicked-cool new title: Director of Operations.
I hope this clears things up.
Sincerely,
Reggie D'AngeloProprietor Mr. dog
P.S. By the way, this is a creepy but laugh-out-loud v funny story. Honest to God.
copyright 2024
Martin Higgins
all rights reserved