Savage Tales

world, and I don't understand why Faith Mcdonald got the Best Director statue for that crappy CGI movie with the dolphins. Like we need more witty talking animals. And… well, that's all I can think of to thank. I guess I'd thank Yung Lip but he's dead and can't hear us.
    "Okay, goodnight."
    Applause, music, the host returns to the stage with a shake of his head.
    Backstage they led him around in a loop to a living room type of place with white sofas and a big screen TV and told him they would return him to his seat at the next commercial break. Clint Eastwood sat on one of the sofas smoking a joint.
    After the awards he told his wife they were going to Donald's party even though Donald had lost the best picture and director statues and was morbidly depressed and not really fit to be around, but because he was the lead actor in Birdie Smash he had to be there to support Donald or they would both look bad, and his wife said okay, she understood, even though she had a headache.
    As they walked along the red carpet and cameras flashed and commentators commentated, an ugly young man in a cheap suit managed to squeeze through when the security guard holding back the reporters turned aside a moment too long to stare at an aging Molly Ringwald's ass (he later apologized and said he didn't know what he was thinking). The man in the suit had a budget camcorder and had a five o'clock shadow.
    As much as he hated these "paparazzholes" (he loved to still use this phrase despite being forced by his agent to apologize for its use in an interview three years earlier) he knew that tonight every tic and sway was hyperanalyzed by the internet gestapo and that he best not even dare a frown. He looked at the young man in the suit and said, "Yes?"
    "Mr. Lennon?"
    And his last thought was that the man had confused him with Jack Lemmon, an old man, and dead at that, and this sincerely hurt his pride.
    From the camcorder – not a camcorder at all – came a firecracker sound and a bullet. The metal went straight into the actor's forehead and killed him instantly. He fell to the ground, his wife trying to slow his fall and failing.
    The guard who had been distracted jumped on the assailant and another guard heard the ruckus and joined in, beating the man down until he was a train wreck of unconsciousness.
    The murder quickly went to the top of the news, overshadowing Hugh Jackman's flashing of his penis when a cell phone went off in the audience and even Woody Harrelson's use of the N-word ("nigger") in a colloquial and jolly manner at a moment that he deemed appropriate.
    Conspiracy theories flew wild, and the prime suspect behind the plot was Yung Lip himself, for being portrayed as a homosexual and being killed when he was in fact not killed. If he had been killed then he would have no reason for anger, and any plotting on his part would seem to be impossible.

GOO NS

    It was hot. In the bar O'Leery and his thugs were playing cards and mumbling, swearing and sweating under their $400 suits. O'Leery was sweating most of all. The new police chief brought in from Philly couldn't be bought. He was breathing down on them hard. He knew it, and Vincent Morelli knew it.
    "You in?" said Charlie Mcminner.
    "I'm in," said O'Leery, tossing in a chip. "What you got?"
    Charlie Mcminner showed his cards: four of a kind. He began to reach for the pile.
    "Not so fast," said O'Leery. He lay his cards down: a straight flush.
    "Are you on the level?" said Charlie.
    "That's life, kid," said O'Leery. "I'm the boss for a reason. I have... experience."
    Charlie started to pout but turned it around to a smile. "So what do we got going? Me and the boys can only sit around for so long. We're getting antsy in this heat."
    "I'm working on it," said O'Leery.
    "It's just me and the boys have been thinking and word on the street is that Morelli's gang is offering –"
    "What?" said O'Leery.
    "Morelli's gang is looking for new blood, is what they say."
    "Oh, that's what they say, eh, Charlie?"
    "I'm not saying we're gonna cross over. Of course we wouldn't do that."
    "Of course you wouldn't. Of course you wouldn't, Charlie."
    "But we gotta eat and pickings are looking pretty slim."
    "And you and the boys would just walk off like that. Without looking back. Without any gratitude."
    "Now I ain't saying that."
    "You seem to be saying something. And I notice none of the other boys are speaking up. Perhaps this is only your decision."
    "Now, boss, c'mon. You know I'm loyal.