Barack Obama and His Cabinet of Doom: The Hollywood Shambler

January 21, 2009

Hollywood, California- Chaz Remington gets off the phone with his sleazy agent. ‘One more stupid action flick and then I can start taking some roles to get me an Oscar’, thought Chaz as he packs his bags, ‘and this flick is the stupidest one yet.’


“Where are you going, baby?”


‘So the girl finally woke up. Got to say something to get her out of my hair.’ “I got a part I have to get to.  I’ll be out of the country for a couple of weeks.  The staff will get you some breakfast.”


“When am I going to see you again?”


“I’ll call you.”


“But you don’t have my number.”


“I’ll call you.”


“You don’t even remember my name, do you?”


“I’ll call you.” Chaz then walked out of his bedroom before waiting for a response. He hates it when the girl is right.




Chaz is napping in his first class seat on his Air Haiti flight from Los Angeles to [capital of Haiti]. The seats are uncomfortable, the in-flight meal was little more than rubber and gristle, and the script in his lap was even more unbearable. If he wasn’t so strapped for a job he would have beat his agent to a bloody pulp with it when she brought it over before he got on this stupid flight. At least his contract says he can be the only one is first-class, so it is relatively quiet. It still took half a bottle of cheap rum cut with rubbing alcohol to get him into a numb enough state to get some sleep.


The flight attendant wakes him. “Sir,” she says in a rich Caribbean accent, “We will be landing in half an hour. Can I get you anything else?”


“No, I’m fine.”


“That hour we spent in the back was amazing. Can we do it again if I ever get back to L.A.?


“I’ll call you.” And then he went back to sleep.




Disembarking, Chaz runs into quite possibly the ugliest woman on the planet. She has a scar over her left eye that still oozes out yellow pus. Her chin and neck is covered in a fine white stubble that barely hides the massive amount of wrinkles on her face. One arm was visibly longer than the other. And that was all Chaz could see over the mud encrusted rags she wore, with a wall of rank mildew smell that almost knocked him to the ground when she rammed into him.


“Hey there, muscles. Want to take me to dinner?”


“No; get away from me you hag.”


“I’ll be seeing you later.”


Chaz shivers at the thought as he walks away.  The rest of the film crew meets him in time to get on this rickety bus that collapsed in a heap when they get to the shoot.


The director is this shabby-looking man with a shrill voice that goes into intimate detail over how he wants this or that scene to be shot.  Chaz barely pays him any attention; all directors looks like shabby, obsessive dweebs to him.  What Chaz pays attention to is his co-star, a leggy blonde that was probably hired more for her screaming ability than anything else.  It is a zombie movie, after all.


That days shooting was long and dull.  The team shoots scene after scene of exposition and wandering around the Haitian jungle.  Chaz gets the inkling suspicion that this movie isn’t even going to make the money back it took to get him on it, much less break even.  At about 5, the director calls it a day.  The crew packs up and they head back to camp.  Chaz is relieved to find out that the actual zombie attack scenes are going to take some time to set up, so they are not filming again until tomorrow night.  He collapses in his private tent and doesn’t wake up until morning.




When Chaz wakes up, he and the blonde are alone in camp while the director and the crew go set up the night scenes.  Now is as good of a time to ‘get to know her better’ as any.


“Hey babe, we were not formally introduced yesterday.  I’m Chaz Remington; I’m sure you’ve heard of me.  And you are…?”


“Rebekah.  And I have heard of you, Mr. Remington.  I have no desire to fornicate, so you just go run along and find someone else to temporarily sate your carnal lusts.”


“That’s cold babe.  What’s wrong with a little bit of lovin’, anyways?”

Rebekah starts to answer, but Chaz doesn’t listen; he would rather listen to himself think. ‘Why couldn’t she be into Kabbalah or Scientology like all the other chicks in the movies? Doesn’t she know that my personal satisfaction is all I care about? Like I really care that God thinks my fun is wrong. Oh she sounds like she’s almost done. Guess I better listen to the last little bit so I know what to say.’


“You better watch yourself out here, Mr. Remington.  Haiti is not the place for people so flippant about God.  He won’t protect you from what is out here.”


Chaz was about to say something, but she walks away.  ‘The nerve of some people.’




The night scenes were even worse that the day scenes, full of cheesy one-liners and predictable jumps. Why would anyone give this man money to direct a local car dealership commercial, mush less a multi-million dollar film? At least the extras are into it. They shamble about, covered in fake gore, moaning like there is no tomorrow. They fall back when they are supposed to.


“We got to get out of here!” Rebekah screams behind him.


“Cut!” the director yells, “Those drum noises in the background are messing up the background noise recorders. Someone go tell them to stop.”


Then, the first scary thing all film happens: the ugly woman from the airport jumps on Chaz’s back.


“Hiya, muscles. Ready for our date?”


Chaz starts to notices how all the extras with the gore have been replaced by extras with grey, ashen skin and vacant eyes. How they are shambling towards him. He reaches back and flings the ugly woman to the ground.


“That was uncalled for, muscles. Hold him down boys!”


4 or 5 of those new extras grab him and pin him to the ground. He struggles to get up, but he can’t. The crew is already running away. Rebekah is kneeling on the floor, praying. The extras walk right past her, like they don’t even see her.


“So, muscles, are you ready to have some fun?”


“Never, you hag; tell these guys to let me go.”


“C’mon give in. Is it really worth fighting about?”


Chaz spits in the ugly woman’s face.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to put a curse on you, muscles, if you don’t want to have fun with me.”


She pulls out a bag from under her tattered clothes and reveals some grey looking powder. Wafts of brimstone emerge from it as she pours some into her knobby hands. “This powder will turn you into a zombie. Not quite living, not quite dead. Easily bent to my will. Is that what you really want?”


“I would rather be all the way dead than have to look at you ever again!”


“Fine, have it your way, muscles. I have a client in America that will pay good money for a zombie of the caliber you will make. Goodbye, muscles. I’d wish you a happy un-life, but you know that isn’t going to happen.”




The hag blew the powder in his face and Chaz Remington was no more.  His body quivered as it vomited forth its internal organs. His skin turned ashen, his eyes glazed over. A hideous moan emitted from its throat as it was placed in a crate, to be shipped to Washington, D.C., care of Barack Obama.


An equally hideous moan erupted from the a few captured crewmen as they were thrown in the crate with it. The creature fed on their flesh as they screamed in pain as the crate’s lid was nailed shut.


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