Paul Levine - The Road to Hell

“ So who wants to see a circumcision? It’s a movie, not a bris.”

Confusion clouded the writer’s face like fog over Malibu. “But I thought you liked my story.”

“ Exactly. Liked it. Didn’t love it. That’s why we gotta make some changes.”

The dark bags under the writer’s eyes seemed to grow heavier. “Am I not free to write the script as I see fit?”

“ Sure you are. When hell freezes over.” Beazle drummed a manicured fingernail on his desktop. “Look, Eddie. Do you want the deal or not? I got Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley dying to get their projects out of turnaround.”

“ I daresay some cautious editing might be appropriate,” the writer ventured.

Like taking a biscotti from a baby, Beazle thought. “That’s the spirit, Eddie. So I gotta ask you. Where’s the girl?”

“ What girl?”

“ You got a guy strapped to a board. Talking to himself. Bor-ing! Maybe Tom Hanks can schmooze with a volleyball for two hours, but he had the beach, the ocean, the great outdoors. You got a dark hole in the ground.”

“ The solitude represents man’s existence.”

“ Deal-breaker, pal. If you’re gonna ask Leo or Cuba or Russell to spend the entire shoot in a hole, at least give ‘em Scarlett Johansson for eye candy.”

“ Scarlett…?”

“ In a torn blouse. And instead of those rats chewing off the guy’s straps, she unties him.”

“ The rats represent our primal fears.”

“ Box office poison, Eddie. A one-way ticket straight-to-video.”

“ But a woman…” The writer’s voice trailed off and he scratched at his mustache as if it had fleas. “Writing from the distaff point of view is hardly my forte.”

“ No problema, Eduardo. We’ll bring in Nora Ephron to punch up the he-said, she-said dialogue.”

“ Another writer?”

“ Read me your first sentence, Eddie.”

The writer recited by heart. “‘I was sick-sick to death with that long agony.’”

“ Downer. Maybe we get Judd Apatow to lighten the mood, toss in some fart jokes.”

“ But that would dilute the horror.”

“ Hold the phone, Eddie! Just got a brainstorm. The prisoner falls in love with Scarlett, but she’s got a fatal disease.”

“ Good heavens. What would that accomplish?

“‘ Halloween’ meets ‘Love Story.’ Boffo B.O.”

The writer’s face took on the pallor of a drowning victim. “Perhaps the theme of the story is unclear to you.”

“ Hey, you want to send a message, use e-mail. You want foreign box office, you need stars, action, sex.”

“ I assure you my work is quite popular in France.”

“ Sure, you and Jerry Lewis. The point is, we’re going after the masses, not the art-house crowd.”

The writer still held the pen in a death grip. He stared at the check. Picking up sunlight from the window, the paper seemed to be made of burnished gold. He exhaled a long sigh and said, “I suppose you know best, Mr. Beazle. So if there are no other changes…”

Beazle smiled, his double row of porcelain crowns gleaming. He loved breaking a writer. It was better than sex. Maybe not sex-on-coke, but straight sex. “One more thing, Eddie. What’s the setting? Where the hell’s this prison?”

“ Spain, of course.”

“ Fine. We’ll shoot in Vancouver. But no subtitles and we gotta update.”

“ How? It’s the Spanish Inquisition.”

“ Period piece? No can do. With all respect, Eddie, you’re no Jane Austen. And as for the ending, we gotta lose the French Army. Who’s gonna believe they win a battle? I’m picturing a SEAL team, maybe the Rock in a cameo.”

The writer’s alabaster hand trembled as he fiddled with a loose button on his heavy coat. Beazle made a mental note to send the guy to Melrose Avenue for some new threads before letting him on the set.

“ That is it, then?” the writer asked. “A new title. Another writer. A naked woman. No rats. A SEAL team. And Canada.”

“ Almost there. But tell me. Who’s the hell’s the heavy?”

“ A faceless evil. The horror is intensified by the anonymity of its source.”

“ Muddled storytelling, Eddie.”

The writer’s shoulders sagged. “I suppose you could say the villain is the unseen executioner.”

“ Unseen? It’s motion pictures, not radio. How about Anthony Hopkins? Those creepy eyes will pucker your orifice.”

The writer’s forehead knotted like burls on pine. “Putting a face to the evil is unnecessary. The man in the pit believes he is going to die. True horror is not physical pain. It is the anticipation of pain, the realization that death is a certainty, whether by falling into the pit or being eviscerated by the pendulum. Do you understand, sir?”

“ Sure. You don’t like Anthony Hopkins. You want to go younger? My daughter says Clive Owen makes her panties wet. Whadaya say?”

“ Mr. Beazle, I cannot surrender my integrity.”

“ Not surrender. Sell! I’ll get you a suite at the Peninsula. Room service. Blow. You want a hooker? I got a chippie you’ll love. Name’s Lenore.”

The writer pulled himself up, knees wobbling. “If I agreed to your terms, it would indeed be a midnight dreary.”

“ Sit down, Eddie!”

“ I think not.” He took a step toward the door.

“ You’re saying no to money, pussy and drugs? What the hell kind of a writer are you!”

But he was already out the door.

Beazle couldn’t believe it. A moment earlier, the bastard was perched on the edge of the abyss. Beazle grabbed his suit coat and hurried into the corridor, alligator sneakers clomping on the tile. He caught up with the writer at the elevator bank.

“ Eddie! Is it the dough? I’ll double it.”

Two elevator doors opened simultaneously. One attendant, a smoking hot redhead in a black leotard festooned with orange flames, winked and said, “Down?”

The writer recoiled as waves of heat rolled from the open car.

In the other car, the attendant, a petite blonde in a white leotard with snowy wings, smiled angelically and said, “Up?”

“ Last chance Eddie!” Beazle implored.

“ Never more,” the writer whispered, soft as a lover’s lament.

Beazle sighed in surrender. He didn’t lose often, but when he did, it hurt. “He’s going up.”

The writer stepped into the blonde’s elevator, the door closing with a quiet whoosh.

Beazle grabbed a fat cigar from his suit pocket. A Cohiba, a gift from Fidel himself at the Havana Film Festival. Beazle ran the wrapper paper under his nose and inhaled deeply. Not even burning sulphur smelled this good.

Beazle took a double guillotine cutter from his pants pocket and snipped off the cap of the Cohiba. He snapped his thumb and middle finger together, setting off a spark that engulfed the tip in flame. He drew smoke — his mother’s milk — into his lungs, and held it there.

“ There’ll be others,” he said, exhaling a cloud as black as coal dust.

There were always others, drying to sell their souls. Writers who dream of starlets and red carpets and their own insignificant names flickering across the screen. Vainglorious fools, every one, all destined to spend eternity in development hell.

“ What aren’t you telling me?” Victoria Lord demanded.

Jeez. Her grand jury tone.

“ Nothing to tell,” Steve Solomon said. “I’m going deep-sea fishing.”

“ You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World.”

“ That boat was defective. I’m gonna sue.” Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. “You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers.”

“ A long line of liars, you mean.”