Garrett Cook here. I breathed a sigh of relief on this first week of open subs when I got someone I knew. Ben Arzate writes hip, transgressive plays and novellas influenced by Battaille and the like, along with stuff on Japanese noise bands you’ve never heard of. It’s a truly distinct voice and viewpoint. I have no clue who his co-writer is.
Coming Attractions
by Ben Arzate and Rob Ramirez
Action Movie Trailer
“COMING THIS SUMMER!” the cracked gunmetal gray text imposed over a black, flaming
background reads. A loud, deep voice reads it out for the illiterate audience. Dramatic music plays.
The trailer cuts to the President poring over documents in a manila folder. He sweats and grits
his teeth. Cut behind him and over his shoulder to reveal the folder is full of glossy photos of nude
women. The door to the Oval Office slams open. The Secretary of Defense and the General march in.
“Mr. President, ah, I’m afraid that the United States is, ah, under attack,” the Secretary of Defense
says.
The President blows a raspberry and makes a jerk-off motion with his hand.
“So, what?” he says. “This the United States of Goddamn America! We can kick anybody’s
asses anytime anywhere!”
“SIR!” the General shouts extremely loudly. The President and the Secretary of Defense plug
their ears. “I’M AFRAID THIS SHIT IS MORE INTENSE THAN YOU’D THINK, SIR! THIS SHIT
MAKES 9/11 AND PEARL HARBOR BOTH LOOK LIKE O-RING AROUND THE ROSY CHEEK
TWINK’S DICK!”
The President and the Secretary of Defense pull their fingers out of their ears.
“Uh… What?” The President says.
“He’s, ah, not wrong, sir,” the Secretary of Defense says. “Ah, this attack wiped out, ah, a lot of city blocks. 9/11, ah, does look like, ah, a Mickey Mouse Teletubby after school special, ah, compared this.”
“So send a retaliation attack,” The President says. “What are you two, fucking brain dead? You
need me to tell you this?”
“SIR!” the General says. The President and the Secretary of Defense plug their ears. “I’M
AFRAID THAT THE FIRST RETALIATION ATTACK WAS A FAILURE! OUR DRONES, OUR
FLYING DICKS OF DEATH, ALL GOT CHOPPED OFF AT THE BALLS! OUR INFANTRY ALL
GOT THEIR DICKS SURGICALLY FUSED TO EACH OTHERS’ PINK BUTTHOLES!”
The President and the Secretary of Defense pull their fingers out of their ears.
“Was it that bad?” The President says.
“Ah, maybe you should, ah, see for yourself,” the Secretary of Defense says.
A nurse with big tits wearing a small, tight white uniform, white stockings, and red high heels
wheels a gurney into the Oval Office. On it are two men sewn together at the hip. Their legs are
missing. They have one arm each. Their entire bodies are covered in severe burn scars. Their arms
twitch. They babble like infants and drool.
“Ick!” The President says. “That is pretty bad.”
“SIR!” the General says. The President and the Secretary of Defense plug their ears. “THESE
WERE MY BEST MEN AND THEY GOT FUCKED IN THE ANUS! THEY LOST THEIR DICKS
SO THEY CAN’T EVEN FUCK! THEY SHARE THE SAME ASSHOLE NOW SO WHEN THEY
GET FUCKED IT’S ALWAYS A THREESOME!”
“What is, ah, your, ah, recommendation, Mr., ah, President?” the Secretary of Defense says.
“It looks like we got no goddamn choice,” The President says. “We’ll have to use… The Secret
Weapon.”
“YES SIR!” the General says. “RIGHT A-BUTTFUCKING-WAY, SIR!”
The President scrunches up his face. He dabs the inside of his ear with his finger. He pulls it
away. There’s blood on his fingertip. The General marches out.
“But, ah, sir,” the Secretary of Defense says. “It’s, ah, been so long since, ah, we’ve used The Secret
Weapon that, ah, it has more cobwebs than, ah, your wife’s cunt.”
“We have no choice. The threat is so great that we have to employ our most powerful forces in
order to protect the American people. It’s our sworn duty. Now you get the fuck out of here before I
make you suck off a shotgun until it ejaculates your goddamn brains all over the wall!”
Cut to the critic quotes, all read by a loud, deep voice over dramatic music.
“NONSTOP, LOWER INTESTINE-POUNDING ACTION!” says Ass-Fisting Quarterly.
“IF I WIPED MY ASS WITH A FILM STRIP, IT WOULD MAKE A BETTER MOVIE!” says
the reanimated corpse of Gene Siskel.
“I’M NOT GIVING YOU A QUOTE, YOUR CHECK BOUNCED!” says Collider.com.
“thismovieisratedrforregurgatory,” the voice says over the rating and credits title screen. All the
credits are listed as Alan Smithee.
*
Comedy Movie Trailer
A man walks into frame. The sound of canned applause plays. The man walks down a sidewalk. He
slips on a banana peel. He falls headfirst backwards onto the concrete. As he hits it, he begins to bleed
profusely from the head. He writhes in pain. He groans and gasps as the blood pools on the sidewalk.
There is a close-up of his bleeding head wound. He kicks his legs. He looks towards the camera as if
begging for help from the camera operator. He reaches out, his mouth hanging open. A rattling noise
escapes his throat. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. He sets his head in the blood pool. He stops
moving. After a moment, there is a loud flatulence noise indicating that he has shit his pants.
He lies still as the blood puddle slowly expands out. The sound of canned laughter starts to play.
It’s cut off by an orchestra hit and a smash cut to a black screen with white text saying, “COMING
SOON.”
Ben Arzate lives in Des Moines, IA. He’s a regular contributor to Bizarro Central. His latest novel, If today the sun should set on all my hopes and cares…, was published by Baynam Books Press.
Rob Ramirez was born in 1957 in Arizona. He currently lives in Iowa with his wife and dogs. His debut novel, Doomsday Daytrip, was published by Swann+Bedlam.
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