"A Film," Chapter 1, Part 1

Chapter One

I.

[Play: Music for Chameleons, Gary Numan]

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ICfktt7Ugc&list=RD9ICfktt7Ugc&start_radio=1

It is the flat and hateful landscape of the American west bathed in the red-hot glow of the sun. A spider scurries across the cracked clay accompanied by its shadow. So hot was it the cold-blooded reptiles refuse to leave their subterranean homes save for one. A black car cuts across the horizon. Driving it is no other than George.

He is a complete and utter rat-man of the 21^st century. Fashioned by the same God as any. He was the lizard-person the 4% of the American population believes in. A cold-blooded Santa  Clause. Half rat, half lizard, whole fiend.

George was on a quest. Truly he was looking for one sincere person in this great landscape riddled with hypocrisy. Once found, he would cease this quest of cleansing. The other part was to truly make a name for himself. To go ALL IN.

Oh, George—Georgy Pordgy Pudding and Pie—was really going to make the girls cry. He was headed for Destination A, for the boardwalks, for the streets, to prowl around in his ugly dented 1950s Ford Custom. Its paint chipped, rust eating away at the frame, forming orange, crusty scabs. All George has to do is close his eyes. He could pretend it was a cherry red Ferrari, a silver Corvette, a mean looking Mustang. He opens his eyes to the sound of a whoop-WHOOP! and blue-red lights in the review mirror.

He turns down the music and pulls over to the side. The landscape like mars, with red, craggy sand. Low shrubbery pocket the land like failed hair implants. A lone quail wails her sullen cry. He could hear two sets of boots against the gravel and, through his side mirror, observes one officer saunter over. At the B pillar, peering through aviators, he’s the older one doing the talking. The younger is looking at him from the passenger side.

“You know why I—,” a brief pause, “where are your pants?”

Awe hell! He wasn’t wearing any pants! It was tent city down there—but his oversized Hawaiian shirt hid all.

“They ran off on me.”

“You think you’re funny?”

“I know I’m funny.”

“How about you step out of the car.”

George complies, sliding out of the door and standing before the police officer, proud of his exposed chicken legs.  

“Let me get one thing straight…you put on socks…you put on boots…but you decided not to put on pants.”

“It appears that way, officer.”

He gives George a good, long look that makes him uncomfortable.

“Are you high?”

“Do I look high?”

George smiles a wide grin, flashing his silver tooth. His dark hair wild, exaggerating his widows peak.

“You do.”

“Does every pantsless guy look high to you, officer?”

The youth behind him sneezes. George has completely forgotten about him and looks around his shoulder.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.”

The younger officer was classically handsome. He has a square, clean shaven jaw and thick hair, a straight nose and straight teeth. He has that classic all-American charm about him. A true gum-chewing Dough Boy. A good ol’ Yankee. Geroge was instantly jealous and thinks caustically the guy was some bright bumpkin with high notions of protecting The People.

“Fred, get your ass over here.” The old man says.

“Yes sir.”

“You a rooky?” George asks.

“Hey, I’m the one asking questions.”

The old cop says as Fred makes his way around the car. There was not another driver in sight. The lonesome road stretches on for miles in the hot desert sun. The sun was the only witness. Cruel, distant, and silent.

“Where are you headed?”

“Destination A.”

“Hm. You know what I think you are?”

“An intelligent, albeit slightly sentimental poet searching for truth?”  

“I think you’re a fuckin’ creep, kid.”

“Don’t you need my driver’s license or something?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” then to Fred, “search the car.”

Awkwardly. “Sir…we don’t have probable cause—,”

“Like hell we don’t! This boy is high!”

Fred looks at him. “He doesn’t appear to be—,”

“—This is why the criminals are gonna walk all over you, boy! Now search the damn trunk.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good doggy.” George quips.

A glare escapes from Fred before he resumes his professional indifference. His search revealed an empty vehicle. The old man continues to talk as Fred makes war with prying open the trunk.

“You know what I’m gonna do, creep?”

“My name is George, if you’re gonna call me anything,”

George folds his arms and places his feet shoulder width a part in a power stance. He wasn’t going to let this old fart bully him like he was with the handsome rooky. Poor guy, his wife probably thinks he’s a stud and here he was going against his own reason. All because of some senior guy with A-U-T-H-O-R-I-T-Y. That is not stud behavior.

“I’m gonna take you down to the station for indecent exposure.”

“Who did I expose myself to? Or what did I expose myself to? And what of me? I’m the real victim, here! The universe is a voyeur. It is a sadistic, perverted old man—”

“ah-HA!”

Both men look back at Fred who composes himself. He finally got the trunk open.

“All he’s got is rope and duct tape.” Fred says. He allows the trunk to fall shut.

“Wait a damn minute. Rope and duct tape?”

“A man’s not allowed to own rope?” George asks.

“So, I’m just supposed to pretend you ain’t out here about to kidnap Shirley Temple?”

“Who?”

“Nevermind!”

He grabs George’s wrist in a vice grip and whips him around, slamming him against his vehicle.

“Woah there!”

“Steady, now, you’re under arrest!”

He expertly slaps on handcuffs.

“For what!?”

It goes unanswered and George shoots a look to Fred.

“Look, Allison.” Fred starts. He’s interrupted by George’s coarse laugh.  

“You have a girl’s name?”

George is slammed against the vehicle making it rock. It forces air out of his lungs in a wheeze.

“That’s my surname!” Allison yells, clearly offended.

Fred gives George an angry look: stop screwing around! He was trying to say.

“Look, Allison,” he tries again, “we can’t arrest him. We can’t go searching people’s trunks cause the guy wanted to drive in underwear, and there is no one here he actively exposed himself to…we got nothing! We could give him a ticket for speeding, but considering all the crap we put him through—,”

“Shut up, Fred. Consider this as a rite of passage.”

“A right of passage...” Fred echoes with uncertainty.

George was being pulled back to the patrol car.

“R-rite of passage?” George stammers.  

He’s thrown into the back of the patrol car. Allison doesn’t bother with George’s seatbelt.

“This is active policing.” Allison says to Fred.

“No. This is not policing.”

Fred gets close and lowers his voice. Disputes in front of the civilian populace is not professional. Little marital spats were best left behind closed doors.

“You are so intent on reactionary policing, Fred.” A square, calloused hand pats the young cop’s shoulder. It was patronizing and clearly irritated Fred. “It’s gonna be fine. Chief allows it. Keeps the boys happy.”

“This isn’t protecting and defending.”

Fred’s counter argument came out like a glum, childish retort.

“Relax, kid!”

They get in the car. Al takes out a flask and unscrews the top in one flick, guzzling the brew. He offers some to a disapproving Fred who puts a hand up in silent disapproval. The police car squeals off into the road as Al cuts a sharp U-turn. The car slowly gains 90 miles per hour. 

“Al, the station is the opposite direction.”

“Oh, we’re not going to the station.”

The Ratman was officially sweating in his cage. Where the hell were they taking him!? He suddenly feels bad for making fun of Fred who appears to be his only hope. They pull off onto a barely visible dirt road. The ground was bright and hot as plumes of orange dust shoot up behind the car.

“Hey, Al.”

George says through the cage. He’s sweating bullets.

“I’m really sorry. Truly! It won’t happen again. Hell, I’ll even take the ticket. I’ll pay it too! I’m just a law-abiding citizen—I, I got a squeaky-clean record! Didn’t you call it up?”

“I didn’t call up shit,” he grins, “In fact this call ain’t even happening!” 

Over the radio he says, “Dispatch, Car 12.”

“Car 12, Dispatch,” came the staticky reply.  

“Show myself temporarily out of service for Papa Romeo.”

“Good copy.”

Fred was observing Allison intently. His voice was even.

“Al, what are we doing?”

“We’re just gonna have some fun!” He slaps Fred mid-thigh. The muscles in Fred’s jaw reflex as he clenches his teeth. Al’s hand returns to the steering wheel. “Relax, kid! Ain’t no one gonna get hurt.”

Which is a damn lie. When they arrive to Al’s destination, which was the middle of nowhere, the first thing Al does is drag George ankle first out of the car. His back lands hard on the ground. It knocks the wind out of him. What the hell has he gotten himself into? He tries to mind his own business and this happens!

 Al is laughing so hard he’s wheezing. It’s a high rolling laugh and his bald, old man face looks infantile. He has a gap in his teeth. He takes out his baton and starts going at George like he’s a pinata. The blows subside and George is given a short reprieve while Allison puts on a black glove. He gives the ratman a few punches. The last punch lands against his nose and it cracks and squelches.

George rolls over on the ground, groaning. Shoulders aching from the unnatural position forced by the handcuffs. Handcuffs which bite painfully into his wrists. He spits out a tooth. He gets to his knees, his throbbing head still on the hot ground, feeling sharp grit on his forehead. He steadies himself, straightening up when a boot roughly kicks him down. The baton strikes become more vicious.

“Hey, easy!” Fred calls. He was leaning against the patrol car and pushes off, walking towards Allison with clear intention to intervene.

Allison whips around to face Fred, baton posed as if ready to strike. Fred stares at him.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Fred looks at him evenly and then at George. Allison flips the baton mid air to hold onto the other end, offering it to Fred.

“You gotta get in on this.”

“No.”

Allison sighs. His hand holding the baton drops to his side and he throws his other hand up in defeat. Meanwhile, George has a headache that was splitting him in half. Stars dance in his fading vision. A steady stream of blood gushes from his nose like a lazy geyser. These fucking pigs would devour anything, the Ratman thinks indignantly. He was more resentful over Fred, the only guy with a conscious. Too bad he was too cowardly to do anything about it. Typical.

“Fred, get in there. Hold him up like a buck,” the old man giggles, “just like a buck,”

In a low, hateful voice, one which quivers with emotion, Fred mutters, “This is a new low, even for you.”

Allison disregards the sincerity behind the words, as if they were hollow banter.

“C’mon, and then we’ll leave. It will be all said and done!”

Fred walks over and stands morosely with George bleeding at his feet.

“Well. Go on!” the old cop was impatient.

Fred slowly drops to one knee, grabbing George’s sleeve. He looks straight into the small, mechanical lense as Allison snaps a picture. George’s eyes were already swelling shut and he could only see a sliver of sky. Next, George is being dragged back to the patrol car, the gravel rough against his back. Dirt mingles with his blood. The air was heavy when the two officers enter the police car.

“Now Fred,” Al tries to consol his partner, “you ain’t going to lose your job over this.” 

What will become of George!? Will he ever make it to Destination A? Tune in to finde out on Tuesday, 11/25/25!