THE SCALDING
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
In LOBO's absence, we drew straws to see who would handle the "Hollywood" side of Predator Press.
Legless Jim lost.
I threw the thick packet of documents toward him, and it thumped heavily on the table.
Resigned to his fate, Legless Jim spun the fat manilla envelope around so he could read the big letters written across it:
The Scalding
by LOBO
and Rod Scattin
Legless Jim pulled out what was to be a mockup promo poster: it was of a rather large-chested, scantily clad woman standing in flames as she struggled with what appeared to be a evil, grinning chrome waffle iron. It’s electrical cord was tightly wrapped around her neck, and the plug was poised menacingly, pointed toward her tough-yet-frightened face.
This was all bad enough, but Jim skimmed the two-page script on the plane.
Throughout, the girl on the poster -affectionately referred to as ‘large-chested, scantily-clad chick number one’- is relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.
Legless Jim, an educated and enlightened man, flagged a flight attendant.
“Can I have a drink please?”
***
The effusive cast and crew greeted him as he arrived on the set.
“Big fan, Mr. Jim,” says Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, smiling broadly. “Nice legs.”
“Uh,” says Jim to into the heavy, hypnotic sway of the D-cups. "Yeah."
Legless Jim was corralled to the set.
“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."
“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen [?] as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosom. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her high-heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.
“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”
A tiny plastic model of a Stealth Bomber –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.
“There he is!”, exclaims Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, pointing. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!”
Suddenly, the Stealth Bomber’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air, crashing solidly into the plasic Stealth Bomber.
Both burst into flames.
The fishing line burned away, the two objects fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.
“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”
“What exactly is the budget for this production?” asks Legless Jim.
“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”
[Mr. Insanity]
In LOBO's absence, we drew straws to see who would handle the "Hollywood" side of Predator Press.
Legless Jim lost.
I threw the thick packet of documents toward him, and it thumped heavily on the table.
Resigned to his fate, Legless Jim spun the fat manilla envelope around so he could read the big letters written across it:
by LOBO
and Rod Scattin
Legless Jim pulled out what was to be a mockup promo poster: it was of a rather large-chested, scantily clad woman standing in flames as she struggled with what appeared to be a evil, grinning chrome waffle iron. It’s electrical cord was tightly wrapped around her neck, and the plug was poised menacingly, pointed toward her tough-yet-frightened face.
This was all bad enough, but Jim skimmed the two-page script on the plane.
Throughout, the girl on the poster -affectionately referred to as ‘large-chested, scantily-clad chick number one’- is relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.
Legless Jim, an educated and enlightened man, flagged a flight attendant.
“Can I have a drink please?”
The effusive cast and crew greeted him as he arrived on the set.
“Big fan, Mr. Jim,” says Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, smiling broadly. “Nice legs.”
“Uh,” says Jim to into the heavy, hypnotic sway of the D-cups. "Yeah."
Legless Jim was corralled to the set.
“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."
“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen [?] as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosom. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her high-heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.
“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”
A tiny plastic model of a Stealth Bomber –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.
“There he is!”, exclaims Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, pointing. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!”
Suddenly, the Stealth Bomber’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air, crashing solidly into the plasic Stealth Bomber.
Both burst into flames.
The fishing line burned away, the two objects fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.
“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”
“What exactly is the budget for this production?” asks Legless Jim.
“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”
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