however, wasn't promising. INGREDIENTS: WATER (SUFFICIENT FOR PROCESSING), CHICKEN STOCK, CHICKEN FAT, CHICKEN PARTS, RED #4, RED #8, SODIUM NITRITE, SODIUM NITRATE, SODIUM PHOSPHATE, BHT, BHA, ARTIFICIAL BEEF AND LIVER FLAVORING.
"Where's the beef?" Leonard almost wailed. Even dog food was a rip-off. Ain't life grand? He manually opened the can, plopped its contents on a plate, and began to eat.
It did not taste much like foi gras.
««—»»
Later, his belly full, he went to urinate. A ring of black fungus marked the waterline in the toilet. Bits of dried vomit flecked about the bowl—heroin addicts threw up a lot. As he voided his bladder, an impulse, then, urged him to feel his scrotum and testicle.
Not testi cles. Testi cle. Singular.
Hence, the happenstance which led Leonard to become deprived of one.
After his termination of employment at The Widow's Walk, Leonard decided that Annapolis was not the berg that would make his dreams come true. He still had the rickety Chevette and one night on a lark, he shimmied it onto Interstate 95 and kept on trucking till he got to New York City. Annapolis wasn't a film town, but The Big Apple was. They shot all the good shows there: Kojak, Mod Squad, The Man From U.N.C.L.E., and Woody Allen made all his movies there. First, he secured his gear in a U-STORE-IT rental facility off of 25th street, and he ditched the car. He found an ideal place to live for cheap rent at what the classifieds referred to as "an artist's retreat" called the Works, and—presto!—he was set.
He still had most of the petty cash he'd ripped off from Channel 22—that would cover rent and food for a while, but he still needed his production budget.
Quite by chance, he met a man one day on Amsterdam Avenue. The man was sporty, sharply dressed in a suit and tie, thinning hair and something in his eye that might be described as "shifty." Leonard would pay this man no mind initially; instead he loped dejected down the street, still caught in his desperate muse. "Just four thousand," Leonard was talking to himself in frustration. "Four thousand and I'm set!" Then, of course, he could make his movie— The Confessor— send it to the Sundance Film Festival in Park City Utah, then the cinematic world would see his genius and he'd be rich, copping big Hollywood contracts just like George Lucas had after making Electronic Labyrinth and Coppola after Dementia 13. But it seemed the tribulations of Job just kept landing on his head.
Or...had they?
"Hey, kid. Four thou's what you need? Is that what you said?"
Leonard stopped, turned, and looked at the well-dressed if not shifty looking man who'd spake the strange words.
"I need it to make a movie," Leonard said without much use. "I've got the script, I've got the equipment. All I need is the money."
"I can spot ya four thou easy," the man zipped off. "You gotta show me the equipment, though, for collateral purposes. Then I lay four large on ya, cash, but it's a hundred points."
"A hundred... points?" Leonard asked, not quite comprehending.
"Interest kid. I lay four on ya, cash, and ya pay back eight."
Leonard's eyes bloomed. Sure, that was a steep interest rate, but where else would he get a loan? It wouldn't take more than a few weeks to make the movie, and not much more for the money to roll in. He'd clear the debt easy, even be able to pay it back early!
"You got a deal, sir!" Leonard enthused. Then he happily led the man to the U-STORE IT! The collateral was proven, and the deal was sealed. Then the man, right then and there, gave Leonard four thousand dollars in cash.
The man's name was Rocco.
««—»»
Naivete. The oblivion of youth.
Rocco, as you may have guessed, was, among other things, a loan shark for the Mob. Leonard supposed he knew that but saw no good reason to consciously acknowledge it. None of that mattered. Only the movie mattered, for the movie was his dream. Leonard knew he'd been put on earth to make movies. And
"Where's the beef?" Leonard almost wailed. Even dog food was a rip-off. Ain't life grand? He manually opened the can, plopped its contents on a plate, and began to eat.
It did not taste much like foi gras.
««—»»
Later, his belly full, he went to urinate. A ring of black fungus marked the waterline in the toilet. Bits of dried vomit flecked about the bowl—heroin addicts threw up a lot. As he voided his bladder, an impulse, then, urged him to feel his scrotum and testicle.
Not testi cles. Testi cle. Singular.
Hence, the happenstance which led Leonard to become deprived of one.
After his termination of employment at The Widow's Walk, Leonard decided that Annapolis was not the berg that would make his dreams come true. He still had the rickety Chevette and one night on a lark, he shimmied it onto Interstate 95 and kept on trucking till he got to New York City. Annapolis wasn't a film town, but The Big Apple was. They shot all the good shows there: Kojak, Mod Squad, The Man From U.N.C.L.E., and Woody Allen made all his movies there. First, he secured his gear in a U-STORE-IT rental facility off of 25th street, and he ditched the car. He found an ideal place to live for cheap rent at what the classifieds referred to as "an artist's retreat" called the Works, and—presto!—he was set.
He still had most of the petty cash he'd ripped off from Channel 22—that would cover rent and food for a while, but he still needed his production budget.
Quite by chance, he met a man one day on Amsterdam Avenue. The man was sporty, sharply dressed in a suit and tie, thinning hair and something in his eye that might be described as "shifty." Leonard would pay this man no mind initially; instead he loped dejected down the street, still caught in his desperate muse. "Just four thousand," Leonard was talking to himself in frustration. "Four thousand and I'm set!" Then, of course, he could make his movie— The Confessor— send it to the Sundance Film Festival in Park City Utah, then the cinematic world would see his genius and he'd be rich, copping big Hollywood contracts just like George Lucas had after making Electronic Labyrinth and Coppola after Dementia 13. But it seemed the tribulations of Job just kept landing on his head.
Or...had they?
"Hey, kid. Four thou's what you need? Is that what you said?"
Leonard stopped, turned, and looked at the well-dressed if not shifty looking man who'd spake the strange words.
"I need it to make a movie," Leonard said without much use. "I've got the script, I've got the equipment. All I need is the money."
"I can spot ya four thou easy," the man zipped off. "You gotta show me the equipment, though, for collateral purposes. Then I lay four large on ya, cash, but it's a hundred points."
"A hundred... points?" Leonard asked, not quite comprehending.
"Interest kid. I lay four on ya, cash, and ya pay back eight."
Leonard's eyes bloomed. Sure, that was a steep interest rate, but where else would he get a loan? It wouldn't take more than a few weeks to make the movie, and not much more for the money to roll in. He'd clear the debt easy, even be able to pay it back early!
"You got a deal, sir!" Leonard enthused. Then he happily led the man to the U-STORE IT! The collateral was proven, and the deal was sealed. Then the man, right then and there, gave Leonard four thousand dollars in cash.
The man's name was Rocco.
««—»»
Naivete. The oblivion of youth.
Rocco, as you may have guessed, was, among other things, a loan shark for the Mob. Leonard supposed he knew that but saw no good reason to consciously acknowledge it. None of that mattered. Only the movie mattered, for the movie was his dream. Leonard knew he'd been put on earth to make movies. And
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