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.
