Papa Ratzy Sex, Violence & Straddled Chainsaws By Stan Arnold Copyright © Stan Arnold 2016 ISBN 9781370870394 Stan Arnold has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely co-incidental. Novels by Stan Arnold They Win. You Lose. Daring Dooz Sea View Babylon Vampire Midwives Botox Boulevard Papa Ratzy Papa Ratzy Sex, Violence & Straddled Chainsaws 1 Halle Berry stepped into the spotlight. Her voice was as clear and as beautiful as ever. ‘And the nominations for Best Original Screenplay are: Steven Spielberg for The Life and Times of Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky and his dog. Quentin Tarantino for Nunnery Apocalypse. Who’s a Cheeky Boy, Then? based on the recently discovered screenplay by John Wayne. And finally, Vampire Midwives by James Redfern Chartwell.’ Halle was handed the golden envelope. She held it in front of her. The TV broadcaster’s switchboard was inundated with complaints that the envelope was blocking the view of her cleavage. Unaware of the nationwide upset she was causing, she nervously opened the envelope. The audience was pin-drop quiet. This was particularly true of table 47 and two of its occupants, video cameraman, Michael Selwyn Barton, and the aforementioned, sound man turned scriptwriting sensation, James Redfern Chartwell. At any event lasting three and a half hours with free champagne, they’d normally have only been able to hazard a guess as to which continent they were on. But tonight was different. Tonight they were drinking chilled water. Even so, their mouths were dry. Because this was it. Halle surveyed the expectant ranks of Hollywood’s finest, and her eyes sparkled. ‘And the winner is - James…’ The rest of her sentence was drowned out in a roar of approval from the 3000-strong audience. Jim stood up. His mouth hung open. Mick hugged him and the cameras flashed. They both had tears streaming down their cheeks. As Jim made his way to the stage, Robert de Niro jumped out, pumped Jim’s hand and slapped him on the back. ‘Thanks Bob,’ said Jim. ‘Anytime, Jimbo,’ said Robert. There was no doubt that a large part of the success of Vampire Midwives was down to Robert’s powerful portrayal of the bearded, transsexual matron, Cydney. Jim walked on towards the stage. As he looked up, he could see they were playing the opening scene on a huge screen. The Yorkshire night nurse, played by Cameron Diaz, was, despite a startling set of incisors, speaking the immortal lines, ‘Ee bah gum, sithee matron, another of them gradely little, no-year-old snacks just popped out of yon lass’s belly.’ As he continued to thread his spotlit way through the tables, the cheers rang in his ears, the backslapping and handshakes continued, and his mind raced through the amazing events that had led to what he hoped would be the first of many Oscars. Six months’ earlier, in their lino-clad office, Mick and Jim had sagged down into their hammocks and agreed that Vampire Midwives was a dud. They’d half-heartedly hawked it around London agents, but the responses varied from sincerely-felt indifference to hysterically aggressive. Three months later, they were still trying, but only quarter-heartedly. One evening, after three rapid refusals in a row, they retired to a pub, where their Slade tribute band, Flayed, had played when they were younger. They’d drunk a lot, and Jim became particularly upset about the script’s effect on one of the agent’s secretaries, who was now having regular sessions with a Harley Street psychotherapist. And so it was that, after an evening over-indulging in cheap brandy laced with creative despair, the script got left behind on the counter of a chip shop in Battersea. Two months later, covered in postmarks and obscene abuse in a variety of languages, it arrived at Hollywood’s leading abattoir, Cows R Us. A young, part-time employee, who was doubling up as a trainee editor at a major studio, found the script discarded in one of the slaughterhouse’s drainage channels. After washing it under the tap and drying it with a hair dryer, he’d taken it home to read. He laughed until he cried, and firmly believed he was looking at the greatest example of off-beat satire since Catch 22. He rushed off to the studio the next day, hassled the daylights out of his boss, and, by the end of the week, it was up for executive consideration. Despite the bad spelling, and a few remaining bovine bloodstains, the board agreed the script was exceptional. Two days later, Jim got the call. He was smart enough not to mention that the script was supposed to be deadly serious. The deal was unbelievable. A month later, production started. First week box office returns hit fifty million dollars, and it had ballooned, worldwide, from there. James Redfern Chartwell had arrived. A 20-acre mansion in Beverley Park, a 35-metre 116 Sunseeker superyacht moored in Barbados, a private jet, three additional homes - Sardinia, Monte Carlo, Malibu and, of course, the two-story apartment overlooking Central Park. Jim walked past the orchestra who were busy playing the Vampire Midwives theme (now an iTunes phenomenon) and on up the red-carpeted steps to the left of the stage. As he appeared in full view, the cheering became ecstatic, the volume unbelievable. Halle threw her arms out wide and bounced up and down with excitement. Her diamond- encrusted evening gown flashed and dazzled in the spotlights. The TV company stopped receiving complaints. Jim squinted into the audience for any sign of his life-long best friend, Mick. But he was hidden by the adulation. He walked towards Halle. She looked fabulous. She placed her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Although Jim was excited, truly, beyond his wildest dreams, he couldn’t help noticing that for a gorgeous, international movie star, she smelt rather strongly of pilchards. 2 The lights continued to shine in Jim’s eyes. Then he heard a voice. It was not Halle. ‘Thank God! It’s alive!’ ‘What?’ muttered Jim. The smell of pilchards was even stronger now, but the red and gold Dolby Theatre, the cheering audience, the TV cameras and Halle Berry had all gone. The light he was staring at came from the torch of a London policeman. ‘What do you mean “alive”?’ ‘Well,’ said the policeman, patiently, ‘if we find a body in a skip, it usually hasn’t been breathing for a long time.’ Jim sat up slowly, made himself comfortable on an assortment of bin bags and greasy kitchen waste, and removed the half-opened can of pilchards that had been sliming its way down between his neck and the collar of his shirt. The policeman thought about offering a helping hand. Once Jim was out, he clung to the side of the skip, breathing in the cold night air. He realised he had to get into the real world as quickly as possible. So he pulled his shirt out of his trousers and let the pilchards slide down his chest and on to the floor of the alleyway. ‘So what happened?’ said the policeman. ‘No idea,’ said Jim, truthfully. ‘Spend a lot of nights in skips, do you?’ ‘I must have had a bit too much to drink and, like, thought the skip was my office hammock.’ ‘Look, I’m trying to be as nice as I can. Don’t take the piss.’ Just then, a ghastly apparition climbed gingerly out of the skip on the other side of the alleyway. It spoke with a surprising degree of confidence. ‘Greetings, officer, and can I say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance on such a splendid evening. All those stars up there with all that sort of black stuff. Dare I reference 2001: A Space Odyssey? I think I dare. As night times go, it must be one of the most glorious on record.’ ‘What the bleedin’ hell’s he on about?’ said the policeman. Encouraged by this positive response, the apparition continued. ‘Tonight, gentlemen, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other leads to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.’ And with that, the ghost fell forward and landed face down in an oily puddle. The policeman rushed across the alley, knelt down and turned Mick over. The puddle had removed a good proportion of the cement dust that had created his sepulchral image, and replaced it with a thin layer of well-used Castrol 10W-30. ‘I know him,’ said Jim, ‘but he didn’t used to keep changing colour.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘My best friend, Michael. He was at the Oscars with me, a few minutes ago.’ The policeman thought of truncheoning them both and stuffing them back in the skips, but professionalism got the better of reason, and he concentrated on making a speedy return to the bosom of his family and a nice cup of cocoa by the fire. Mick was helped to his feet. He looked very confused. ‘Hello James’, he said, staring at no one in particular, ‘I didn’t know you’d joined the police force.’ ‘Can you remember where you live?’ said the policeman. Mick and Jim went into a huddle. After 20 seconds, Jim turned round.