I'll tell you about today, tomorrow. First I need to catch you up a bit on some past stuff. As much historical context as you can get on me would probably be helpful, yeah? Some of my real life has already made its way into my films and some of you have seen them and therefore are ahead of the game and understand references that those of you unfamiliar with my films might not get.

That's certainly not fair and I'm gonna rectify that right now.

For instance, yesterday, in illustrating the yin/yang of my sensibilities, I dropped in a little reference to almost fucking a dead girl back to life. I realized today that those of you not having seen that part of my life portrayed by Wirey Spindell in the film of the same name should hear that story. And to be honest, the scene in Wirey wasn't actually what happened. I didn't lie or anything, Wirey wasn't meant to be completely based on fact but merely drawn from my life.

So, Stephanie Rent-A-Fuck was a hot blonde chick I knew in college at Bard. She had one fake breast and was a witch. A good witch. And she didn't mind her nickname at all. In fact she liked it. She got it because as rumor had it, she had been an escort for a time in New York before college. Back then, 1984, that was a cool and very unique resume line.

I fucked her within her first week at Bard. It was much fun and I couldn't tell she had one fake tit.

One night a few weeks later, jacked from shooting many grams of jazz musician coke (which I dealt at that time, I mean really, really fucking good coke. Uncut. High 80s pure) I went home to my house in Tivoli, a small bizarre town near Bard built on a Native American burial ground. It had the reputation of having the highest incest rate in America. I don't know if that's true but I do know it was a sketchy fucking pueblo with a plethora of Zippy The Pin Head's wandering around.

I got home at about 3AM, desperately downing gulps of JD in an effort to counteract the effects of all the coke racing through my veins so I could try and sleep. I looked into my bedroom and noticed something weird on my bed, which was made. I never made my bed. There was something on my pillow. I slowly crept toward my bed, my heart beating even faster than it had been before, and the thing on my pillow got clearer. It was a wooden handle? I threw back the covers and there in my bed, laying right where I usually lay when I sleep, was a long shovel with dirt on it.

What the fuck?!!!!

Someone had broken in to my house to put a shovel in my bed? What the fuck did that mean?... OH FUCK!!! My grave is dug out back!!!! The mongoloids, my red neck landlords who I hadn't paid rent to for months, unknown demons, somebody was going to kill me tonight and this was my warning. I raced out of my house, jumped into my car and squealed out of my driveway. Unlike the stupid cunts in the horror movies, I had enough evidence and didn't need to look around my house to see if the people who put the shovel in my bed were around... to like... chop my head of and shit.

I drove back to campus, back to all the uncool pussies who lived in dorms, unlike cool off-campus me. You know, the uncool, dorky babies who lived in nice, warm dorms devoid of hangmen and vodoo zombies keeping them up all night with fear of being mutilated and burried out back? Yeah, them. I raced to them. But on the way I had a revelation.

I bet Stephanie Rent-A-Fuck could tell me who did this!

She was hooked into all the witch and warlock shit on campus, which consisted of one, maybe two other goth chicks chanting on acid once in a while. I had fucked one of these super scary characters one drunken night and she was convinced I had killed her cat, which I hadn't, I just didn't want to fuck her again and she was hurt so she wanted to sully my good name by calling me a cat killer. I was sure she was behind this.

I went to SRAF's room but she wasn't there. She hung with my crew and might be found in the MODS, (modules) these really ugly stilted dorm shacks in a ravine below the dining commons. I ran through the big field that guarded them and went to Diller's room. I had sold the last of an ounce of coke to him, 4 grams, and he and a couple other guys were probably shooting it there. SRAF liked to be around the coke, and we liked her around us because she was an excellent fuck and took pride in that fact.

I got to Diller's room and pushed the door open to find Diller freaking out, Bart mumbling in the corner, and Chase fixing with a half gram in the register about to boot. SRAF was there but not looking too good. She was slumped in a chair, motionless and blue.

"What the fuck?!" I said.

"I know! What do we do?!" Diller screamed.

"Is she dead?"

"I don't know! Should we dump her body?"

"Fuck her first at least." Bart mumbled.

"Shut the fuck up asshole! This isn't funny!" I screamed. We were all panicking. Eric Stoltz was nowhere to be found and the only needle was in Chase's arm and he wasn't giving it up. Pulp Fiction didn't have shit on our college experience. Finally I got a bright idea. "Do CPR on her Diller. You're a fucking science major! "

"Right, right. CPR." Diller said.

Chase chimed in with play by play, "Check registerrrrr... boot." He shot himself with the syringe of coke, oblivious to Diller now blowing air into SRAF's mouth and pumping on her fake tit in an effort to save her life. After a couple attempts, SRAF came to and the first words out of her mouth were, "You're a good kisser Diller. Fuck me, baby." She was back. "Stephanie, before you fuck Diller or die again, do you know who put a shovel in my bed? Was it that other witch I fucked who thinks I killed her cat?"

"She thinks you killed her cat." Stephanie repeated as if I hadn't just said it.

"I know."

"Someone put a shovel in your bed?" Chase asked.

"Yeah."

"You got anymore blow?"

"No. I'm kinda freaked out about this. Stephanie?" Diller had her skirt up and was fucking her, which she was enjoying. "STEPHANIE! Who put a fucking shovel in my bed?!"

"Don't worry. Fuck me after Diller and you'll feel better. I'll put a spell on you so no one will hurt you."

"Thanks. You got anymore of my coke left?" I asked Chase.

"A little."

"Can I have it?"

"Welllll."

"Just make me a hit you cheap fuck." He did. I shot it. We all always shared our coke and we always shared our works. It was the fall of 1984. AIDS had broken three months before but no one thought anyone but gay people got it and even that was kind of a mystery. We didn't know you could get it by sharing blood. None of us got it. And I never was murdered and buried out back. I guess Stephanie Rent-A -Fuck's spell worked.

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 3:04 AM

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