Categories

archive Block
This is example content. Double-click here and select a page to create an index of your own content. Learn more.


Authors

archive Block
This is example content. Double-click here and select a page to create an index of your own content. Learn more.
B-Movie

B-Movie

W. Todd Kaneko

bmovie600.png

We can be teenagers again in 1985. You are a beautiful computer hacker riding her moped and infectious laugh to my house in Arlington, where I am a champion Ms. Pac-Man player with a pocketful of quarters. We will use my Tandy 1000 to dial into the Pentagon because we don’t know the difference between binary fission and love. I’ll accidentally launch a cluster of missiles at the USSR because we don’t fully understand that there is no difference between Inky, Blinky, and thermonuclear war. The FBI will take us into custody and call in the army to destroy everything. We’ll be saved when you persuade the President to let me have one last crack at a kill screen. As everyone watches those bombs spread their hot brand of death across the globe, we’ll make out while everyone remembers to forget we are in the room.

B-Movie

Weeks after the rest of the human race has been turned into zombies by fallout from biological warfare, I’m an army scientist holed up and running out of antivirus just outside Iowa City. You can be a sexy bowhunter whose body has built up an immunity to zombie disease. We will be exhausted after forty-five minutes of being pursued by ravenous monsters, after we witness your shitty ex-boyfriend get split like a wishbone by the undead. We’ll hightail it out to the cornfields where we’ll discover an abandoned army laboratory. We can try to radio for help, but all we’ll get are some test tubes and an old biology textbook. We’ll make out in the supply closet because we are still alive, and then we’ll create an antivirus from your blood because there is no army to come and destroy anything. We will be in love in the end, because it will be just you with arrows dipped in medicine, and me hacking at zombies with a machete.

pq-1-b-movie.png

B-Movie

It will be 1977 in Oregon, and we will be on a blind date at the county fair. It will be late May and you are a newspaper reporter working on a story about runaway teens. I am an amateur stand-up comedian trying to win a giant stuffed beaver for you at the Monkey Darts. You won’t laugh at my jokes and no one believes in your theory about disappearing homeless kids in the Portland area until I see that fat clown swallow a raggedy boy whole, wispy sideburns and all. We run to find a security guard but are intercepted by a mob of hungry clowns pouring out of a dusty Volkswagen Beetle. They chase us past the Moon Skate, through the Haunted Barnyard, and around the Food Circus, chomping on unwary families as they go. There won’t be time to call the army in to obliterate anything. We can hide in the House of Broken Mirrors where I will tell you jokes to settle your nerves. You still won’t laugh, and then a heavy clown cackles until he explodes, a blossom of white face paint and guts. I tell every joke I know, and you stab every red bulbous nose with your #2 pencil. There will be plenty of time for us to make out after the last of those painted cannibals have been ruptured, after we are safe outside the fairground gates. You’ll say knock knock. I’ll say who’s there? We’ll hold that kiss until the credits roll.

B-Movie

That summer, I will be a recently fired airline pilot looking for a job in Los Angeles, and you will be a hot amateur meteorologist wearing a tight leather jacket. The rest of the world will refuse to believe your peculiar forecasts until that lady on roller skates gets vaporized by a flying saucer. The governor will distract the Martians with mobs of homeless people, sacrifices to save movie stars, but when those giant robots attack Universal Studios, when the orphanages are turned into Martian cafeterias, the army will be called in to destroy everything. Heavy artillery is no match for aircraft blooming like jellyfish. When I witness a platoon of Martians shy away from a busted fire hydrant, you’ll get the idea to seed the clouds with dry ice. We’ll steal an airplane and load the sky with rain. We’ll make out after the fire department opens hose on the invaders. We’ll survive, you with my jacket over your shoulder, me with your lipstick on my collar, and all that slime left to drain into the sewers and out to sea.

pq2-b-movie.png

B-Movie

Your father is a politician and amateur astronomer living in Scottsdale and you are a police detective who never looks at the sky. It will be Autumn in the desert and when horse corpses are found scattered by the dozen throughout Maricopa County, I am a Mexican wrestler with a silver mask and a hot convertible. We’ll investigate those massive cadavers left whole and drained of blood on the outskirts of Phoenix. Your father blames bad immigration laws until those aliens swarm your stable—then he blames the Democrats. When his neighbors call the cops, I am mistaken for an illegal so we fight our way to the Superstition Mountains where the creatures prowl for javelinas and stray hikers. Your father would insist that someone should call in the army to destroy everything, but you notice that we can see Mars tonight. They descend upon us in their glittery body suits and teeth like razors, a battle royale to save all our necks. In the end, it will be me holding the leader in a full nelson and you piercing his heart with a stake. We stand together at the top of a mountain while the saguaros struggle to bloom. Your father hates the way that I hold you close to my bare chest, the way that you call me hombre and run your fingers along the features of my mask. You call me conquistador of the galaxy, world champion of el corazon. Speak louder now, because your father still calls me other things—an exotic invader, a monster strayed too far from home.

All rights reserved to W. Todd Kaneko.

Illustration by Alex Fukui.

Nonfiction: Harmony Neal

Gethsemane

Gethsemane