Fidelio

The dirty whoreson Kubrick stole my car, leaving me stranded in some Guatemalan slum after closing time. I shant forget it.
It was a positively balmy summer night in 1974, the revolucion had just rolled over guatemala, and I was behind the wave recording the people's experiences for the New York Times. Kubrick came along for the trip, ostensibly to location scout for his next film. I think more likely he wanted unfettered access to the readily available and rather inexpensive senoritas, as well as the fabled Percussio cerveza.
That vile swindler made a fool of himself within four hours of our arrival in latin america. I'd never seen a man get accused of smuggling drugs INTO guatemala, but there he was, bribing his way out of a prickly situation before we'd even had a chance to do anything remotely nefarious. Bumbling buffoon. I shook my head sadly, and wandered off to find us a cab, or perhaps a mule drawn cart that could get us to our destination, the small town of La Cabeza.
La Cabeza is located about 15 miles of the coast, with a population ranging from fifty in the winter to near four hundred in summer, during the famed cattle drovings (fever drunk and itching for human contact, the mad guatemalan gauchos come in waves during the summer drovings).
It was nearly three thirty in the morning, and Kubrick and I had eaten our fill, and at least I had certainly had enough drink to convert any lesser man to madness. But Kubrick continued. And continued. The filthy bastard had scared off every decent girl in the place, and we were left with only Poca, the fifty year old bar maid, and the oddly named "Mr. Bubo", the publican himself as our company. Kubrick proceeded to attempt to regale our hosts with tales of his prowess in combat as well as his skills as a certified master plumber, but Poca was having none of it. Mr Bubo clearly reached his limit, and with nary a word began to strop his machete loudly. Quick as a wink, i was fumbling for the keys to the pathetic corn-oil-powered taxi that I had purchased only a few hours before for only thirty dollars. I knew that it was stolen, and the bloodstains on the front seat betrayed a certain violence to my salesman's....technique, but back to Kubrick.

The fat auteur shoved past me, knocking me flat to the mud slick road. Before I could find my feet, the keys were wrested from my grasp, and I caught a vague whiff of french fries as my little thirty dollar taxi speed away into the night. The sound of shouting and broken glass coming from the pub behind me indicated that in fact Mr Bubo was coming to greet me, and none to warmly.

Thank you Kubrick. i am glad you soiled your career with that pathetic Tom Cruise vehicle.

It was the fall of 1956, and that fool Plimpton convinced my wife Oriette and I to accompany him on a journey into the foulest jungles of Uruguay. We agreed if only because that season at the theatre in New York promised to be dreadful and we wanted to avoid being coerced into attending the ridiculous after-show events with the various troupes of fool "actors" and tolerating their droll wit.
So, we chartered a third-class steamer out of Norfolk, after taking the B&O out of Grand Central's main concourse. The ship was a rickety tub by the name of the Queen Be, yes "Be" not "Bee" or even "Bea". The captain assured me that the name was intentional, but I rather suspect that he saved himself some kopeks by hiring a foreign sign painter, one unfamiliar with either royalty or proper pun construction.
Regardless, our journey was dreadful, more due to boredom and poor provisions than because of weather or the company (although Plimpton insisted on playing backgammon with me, even though he seemingly cannot remember the rules to this day). Upon arrival at the port we were greeted by the local chamber of commerce, who mistook Plimpton for some man of means or influence. We allowed them their mistaken identity as far as it garnered us access to a proper guide and we were also granted access to a coal powered jitney. A vile device, somewhere between a autobus and a train, the system required no fewer than five native attendants armed with pick shovels and water buckets, while we rode out on top, only slightly shielded from the smoke and spew of the engine.
All the while, Plimpton, grinning like the simpering fool he proved to be, continued to chatter in his Brahmin-drawl-inflected-spanish with the locals. I could tell at a glance they had no idea what he was saying, or what, if anything they had to talk about, but gods bless the little natives, they were tolerant of him. We were laden with a few crates of local fruit, a large cask of aguardiente (a local spirit, distilled from cane) and some hard crusted bread. Of course at this point Oriette was already beginning to show signs of the dreaded revenge-of-montezuma, so colloquially known, but we pressed onward.
The jungle itself was rather bland, as such things go. A few monkeys here, a banana tree there, some diptheria-bearing-mosquito-bites over there, twas nothing to truly preserve on paper, but for this- it was on this trip that I began to see beneath Plimpton's masque.
You see, during our trip on the jitney, we had garnered a terrific head of steam as it were, and were plowing deep furrows into the jungle, charging forward ignoring all impediments, when from our vantage place Plimpton was thrown from the vehicle. At first I thought him struck by a low-hanging branch, but none were around. It took the native coalmen time to slow the jitney, and by the time Oriette and I returned to Plimpton's point of departure (the jitney tenders refused to leave their infernal buggy, nor bring it round) we found him milling about, talking with a group of the smallest humans I had ever seen.
Dressed in what appeared to be straw skirts, with bead headdresses and tiny spears, the group of men stood no taller than the middle of my thigh. To my great surprise they appeared to be near-worshiping Plimpton. Eyes wide, and mouth agape, Oriette nudged me to indicate something at Plimpton's side. It appeared he had one of their spears lodged between his third and fourth rib, easily stuck in a good thirteen inches or more. It MUST have pierced his heart. But there the fool Plimpton stood, gabbing in his bad espanol with the locals, buffoon grin upon his visage.
Quick as a wink, Plimpton grabbed one of the little buggers, opened his mouth wide as an anaconda (I never knew about his retractable jaw until then) and popped him into his maw. With a few quick crunches, and nary a scream from the native, Plimpton was done. He wandered off toward the jitney. The remaining natives, rather than attacking him from the rear, seemed placated. Perhaps they assumed one accidental spear strike on a "god" was worth the loss of one hunter.
As we trod back to the jitney, we found a tiny spear in our path, bathed in blood, and heavens help me, a piece of Plimpton's heart upon its point. Still beating.