THE PRIORITIES EPIC featuring the Biddaddy
By Robert Dillon Nemtusak
Jack Bronstein was in the place. He was all up in there. He may not have mastered the Death and Dismemberment section of his life insurance policy, but he was definitely in the place.
The breeze was misty that October afternoon as Mr. Bronstein made his way to the swing set. Nobody knew for sure why the 47-year-old movie executive spent so much time on a swing set, but he was there most afternoons.
I guess you could say that Jack was a real ‘swinger.’
But today was different. Instead of having to fight off a bunch of five-year-olds with his cane, Jack found himself alone at the Sagebrecht Elementary playground swing set.
That is, until Biddaddy showed up. You could hear Biddaddy coming a mile away, because of the eerie freight train noise he made with his nose. Often, Biddaddy was mistaken for a Lionel Train.
The one known as Biddaddy usually spent his time playing pinball over at Mock’s. Occasionally, he would try a game of Pac-Man, Ms. Pac-Man, or even Baby Pac, but for the most part, it was Earth Shaker pinball for old Biddaddy. Aside from that, there was just no accounting for the fellow.
Rumor had it that they kicked Biddaddy off the Special Olympics Advisory Committee for embezzling funds with Steve-o. He was vilified in the press for “goofing on the retarded,” and you can still find posters across town that read, “Biddaddy is not special.”
Either way, Biddaddy was dreaded by most folks. Most folks dreaded the Biddaddy. Would you want to be around somebody who made a ‘freight train’ noise with his nose? Probably not.
Jack Bronstein was no friend of Biddaddy’s. He wasn’t even an admirer. On Friday, October 13, he was just minding his own business, not a care in the world. The breeze was misty, and the Don
“Just right,” Jack smiled. “All I need now is a steamin’ hot avocado bean burrito. What was I thinkin’ about a minute ago? Hmm, hmm…oh yeah, Norris. I wonder if they’re going to bring him out for Die Hard 4: Please Let Me Die. Bruce Willis is just about done.”
Under his headphones, Jack didn’t notice the oncoming freight train whistle of Biddaddy as Biddaddy made his way through the forest.
“Then again,” he mused. “Norris isn’t such an ass-kicker himself anymore. What happened to the ninjas, anyway?”
Suddenly, Bronstein screamed like a baby and ripped the headphones from his head.
The sky seemed to darken as the movie mogul removed the tape from the player and hurled it at the side of the school.
“Jerthansia!” Jack fumed. “I hate that fuckin’ ‘Dirty Laundry.’ Like
Golf-ball-size hail bounced around Bronstein, and he bounced to the next subject.
“There’s got to be a way, consarn it,” he mused. “If I can fuse Seagal’s environmental protection attitudes with Norris’ early shoot first, shoot later style, it’ll be money in the bank. It’ll be two great tastes in one candy bar or some shit like that!”
Biddaddy whistled again.
Jack, on cue, drew his .45 and blew a hole in his Walkman.
He spit on the ashes and cursed, “Stupid thing played ‘Dirty Laundry’.”
Jack stood to his feet and cautiously stepped away from the swing.
Running his fingers through his hair nonchalantly, Bronstein made hi way through the escape tunnel and out onto Owl’s Cliff.
“Somethin’ ain’t right here,” he said.
Indeed, something wasn’t right.
Blue and green moments before, the October sky had suddenly cleared up. The hail was nowhere to be seen. Plus, the burrito stand Jack kept in business had disappeared. Disappeared, as in, gone off the face of the earth.
Bronstein had gotten out of some pretty scary situations, but this one?
Whoa.
Whoa.
Sure, he could go into TOWN and get burritos at the Mexican place, but scabs ran the place now!
Just then, it occurred to Jack that if you arranged all of Van Damme’s films in alphabetical order and drew them on a bar graph according to occult numerology, you’d get a big pentagram with feathers.
“What the fuck?” he gasped.
Brown knit, Jack wiped the perspiration away with a cloth, only to recoil in terror as the cloth crumbled like cookie dust.
“Jerthansia!” Jack cursed. “What the hell is happening to me?”
Even the owls seemed to be deserting hi. They said, “Who?” a few times and flew off to their highland stronghold.
Finally, though, things seemed to return to normal.
Frankenstein’s monster appeared at the bottom of the hill and smiled at Jack.
“Come on down,” said the monster. “The doctor’s buying everyone beer. First come…first served. HA HA HA HA HA!”
In a way, Jack had been waiting his whole life for a moment like this one. Unlike the scripts he extorted from Fat Guy, or the ones he dreamed up while high on burritos and hash, this one was writing itself. And writing itself but good.
“You’re on, Frank!” he shouted.
Jack holstered his .45 and headed down the hill. Beers with Frankenstein? It was a no-brainer!
Or…was it?
Omenous black clouds developed over the patchwork monster kids called Frankenstein.
Jack sensed, correctly, that it was a good time to reassess his priorities.
“Prioritize,” he said to himself. “Is a beer with Frankenstein worth dyin’ for? Hmm.”
He pulled out his .45 again and eyed the monster suspiciously.
“Excuse me,” Jack said. “I’m flattered. Beers with the doc sounds great. But I remain unconvinced. In my monster manual, it says you always have to ask for Monster ID in situations like this. I’ve seen some weird stuff in the past five minutes, and I get the feeling that ain’t even the half of it. More strange stuff has got to be around the corner. Now tell me the truth, Frank. Who’s behind all this?”
“All right,” the zombie relented. “I give up. It wasn’t my idea, Jack.”
“Spit it out, Frank,” Jack hissed. “Who sent you, and who made those storm clouds?”
“It was…BIDDADDY.”
The penalty for uttering Biddaddy’s name in those times was instant death.
Jack averted his eyes from the pile of greenish-yellow avocado bean mush cake that used to be Frankenstein’s monster.
Moments later, Dr. Frankenstein himself came running down the hill.
Thinking fast, Jack squeezed two shots out of his .45 and delivered a kick to doctor’s groin for emphasis.
Frankenstein writhed on the ground.
“Aaagh,” he grunted. “Damn, Jack! You still got it!”
Jack brandished his .45 proudly and grinned.
“You know, doc, you’re right. Heh heh heh. I do! I still got it. I still—hey! I’m not finished with you, you body-snatching eunuch. Where is he? Where is the one what sent you? Tell me or I blow your balls off!”
Dr. Frankenstein pointed toward the school forebodingly.
“The school, you fool. It’s his laboratory now!”
Jack did a double-take.
“Excuse me, Frankenstein. Did you just say ‘luh-boar-i-tor-ee’?”
“Yeah!” Frankenstein smiled. “Just like in the movies! See, Jack? I did my homework!”
“Frankenstein?” Jack fumed like a gas-pipe. “You were a Nazi two hundred years ago and you’re a Nazi now. Get the hell OUT of here!”
Moving on, Jack blew a hole in Sagebrecht Elementary’s front door.
Strutting inside, Jack shouted, “Hey! Did you see my official identification badge name tag? Huh? I got about three more, see?”
Bronstein’s cocky demeanor and smart-ass ways dried up rapidly when Elmer the Glaviano setter flew out of the principal’s office.
Laughing like a swarthy hyena, Elmer bit Bronstein’s ankles until Jack was screaming for his Aunt Jerthansia.
“My boss is waitin’ for ya, Bronstein,” Elmer snarled.
Movie boy gasped, “Jerthansia!” as Elmer morphed into a 6-foot-tall super dog with a scorpion’s tail.
“So much for theatrics,” he laughed. “Time to take care of business.”
You could hear the earth rumble with the laughter of a thousand dead Fat Guys as Elmer worked Bronstein over.
Elmer gave Bronstein an uppercut, a snake-bite, a roundhouse, and a dick kick. He had him on the ropes. Indeed, he was giving Bronstein the business.
Elmer spit his Wrigley’s Spearmint gum at Jack’s forehead and screamed, “HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, BITCH?!”
Jack didn’t like it at all.
Truth be told, Jack liked it even less than he liked Steven Seagal’s sophomoric sophomore effort at raising eco-consciousness, Fire Down Below. Did you see that piece of shit? I’m not kidding when I say that after making that film, Seagal deserved to be sent to
Desperate, Jack fired his gun twice.
All that did was take out the lights.
Now he was in a dark, cavernous elementary school hallway with no one to talk to but a man-eating dog with a scorpion’s tail. This was almost as bad as speech class.
“Up here!” Elmer laughed, standing over his prey. The dog’s menace knew no bounds.
Elmer’s scorpion tail shifted gears and suddenly became a silver hammer.
He raised the hammer and laughed, “Bang bang!”
Jack groaned, “Fuckin’ Silver Hammer,” and went to sleep.
Bronstein recognize the music. Somebody had a recording of that weird opera part of Ridley Scott’s
But he wasn’t familiar with the voice.
Jack had been to hundreds of principals’ offices over the years, what with all of those incidents in his childhood, as well as the movies he’d produced about kids who wanted to get into college. He was especially proud of his work on The Convincing.
The Convincing (1999) told the tale of a male high school student who had to convince his guidance counselor that he was Yale material. It turned out that the counselor was a blond woman with gigantic breasts. He ‘convinced’ her by having sex with her on her desk.
“Ahh, The Convincing,” Jack mused. “That’s what desks were made for. Heh heh heh. So, did they take my brain or something? Jerthansia, what the hell am I doing here?”
Slowly, Bronstein became aware of a middle-aged man in front of his face, rattling on about God knows what.
He didn’t have blonde hair.
And he didn’t have gigantic breasts.
He was Sagebrecht Elementary Guidance Counselor Dice Dickman.
And he was rattling on about God knows what.
Jack tried to avert his eyes.
No dice.
“Hey!” Dice barked. “Over here!”
Resignedly, Jack looked up at Dickman.
Dice puffed on his Marlboro and laughed. He even did that ‘eye’ gesture, where you point to your eyes, so as to make the person you’re talking to look at your eyes.
“I HATE that fuckin’ eye gesture!” Jack screamed. “What’s goin’ on here, Dice? First I get Elmer, now YOU? Didn’t you have a show on CBS 10 years ago?”
“Eleven,” Dice said sheepishly.
Jack waved his hand and laughed, “Bah! You sucked then, and you suck now. How’d you get this job?”
Dickman snapped his fingers, and the music got louder.
“Tell me somethin’, Jack,” Dice puffed. “Have you assessed your priorities lately?”
Jack balked.
“My priorities?” he said. “Huh?”
“Priorities,” Dice said calmly. “Have you taken stock of what’s important and what isn’t lately? You know—prioritization.”
Bronstein scratched his head and did his best ‘James Dean.’
“Let me think,” he replied. “Okay. I got it: I’m about to ‘prioritize’ my foot in your ass! Get it? Jerk-off.”
Dice had a sense of humor, but there were limits. He grabbed the phone.
Bronstein grinned smugly.
“You’re on notice,” Dice said to Bronstein, pointing an accusatory finger.
On the other end of the line, Elmer pulled out his cell phone.
“What seems to be the problem, Dr. Dice?” Elmer growled.
“Elmer!” Dice said. “Thanks for answering the call. I was just about to reveal the secret of consciousness to movie boy here. Then he called me a jerk-off. Is that nice? I mean, one minute I’m trying to help the guy, and the next I’m a jerk-off. Now I’m a little, how can you say, peeved. What should I do?”
Silently, Elmer morphed back to normal dog size, trotted into Dice’s office, and attacked Bronstein.
“Wait!” Dickman shouted. “No, Elmer! Wait! Stop! Elmer, you’ll rip his DICK off!”
It was a horrible scene. Elmer’s instructions were to intimidate and punish. He hadn’t been hired to emasculate people.
Who knows? Maybe the setter had an old score to settle. But eating the guy’s balls? Jerthansia.
Dice nonchalantly extracted Bronstein’s .45 from his desk and aimed it at the dog between Bronstein’s legs.
“That’s enough, Elmer,” he commanded.
Bronstein frantically tried to get the savage dog off of himself.
Dice shook his head.
Elmer wouldn’t relent.
Dice fired away.
Elmer yelped, “Son of a bitch!” and fell to the ground.
Dice Dickman returned the gun to his desk and frowned.
“Now there’s a jerk-off,” he laughed, lighting a new Marlboro.
Bronstein made a face.
“As I was saying,” Dice said. “I wonder if you have your priorities all assessed. We’re supposed to be discussing your ‘reality issues.’ Why do you want to go and call me a jerk-off?”
“Well, I –“
“Prioritize! You know. Prioritize!”
Dice began to wave his cigarette around like some jerk-off has-been stand-up comic.
“Prioritize,” he smiled, standing up and grabbing the microphone. “It means USE your HEAD.”
Her Dice began to pace, an overhead spotlight tracking his every move.
“This fuckin’ guy,” he cracked. “What is with this guy and the burritos, eh? Have you ever read the wrapper on one of those burritos, Bronstein?”
Jack screwed up his eyes.
Dickman continued, “No, I suppose not. Well here it is. Avocado bean mush cake is now used in 98% of all Chickenshit burritos. Did you kow that? No, of course not. You don’t read the INGREDIENTS. You’re too busy hunting down Fat Guys. Once you get a movie out of them, they’re target practice.”
Bronstein turned red.
“You make me sick, Bronstein. I guess you think you’re all high and mighty and stuff because you don’t weigh 300 pounds. Right?”
“No, Dice, that isn’t—“
“Bahh,” Dickman scoffed. “You’re a fuckin’ jerk-off.”
Surreptitiously, Jack made a move for the drawer holding his gun.
Alas, Sagebrecht Elementary Guidance Counselor Dice Dickman was all over that shit. Dice slammed him one in the face and knocked him back on his ass.
“I ought to kill you myself,” Dice fumed. “It would save everybody a lot of trouble. Especially the REAL moviemakers. You know, the people in
Jack was astonished.
“Holy shit!” he cried. “You guys really have done your homework. Nobody knows my middle name!”
Dice looked up from his Erector set.
“What?” he said. “Are you still here?”
Dickman came back to the desk and shoved the .45 in Jack’s face.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Bronstein. That Erector set is so much fun, I lose track of time. Now what were you saying?”
Bronstein frowned.
“I was saying, DICE, who the hell cares if there’s avocado bean mush cake in my burritos or not?”
“I’ll tell you who cares. You. At least, you should. Avocado bean mush cake is poison. If you don’t knock it off with the burritos, you’ll be dead in two years. Tops.”
“Thanks, Dice,” Bronstein said matter-of-factly. “Thanks for the advice. I’d like to live more than another two years.”
“Skip it, Jack,” Dice shrugged. “I’m about to hand you over to the Biddaddy. You ain’t gonna last another two minutes. You should’ve prioritized. Jerk-off.”
Dickman disappeared.
This was all a bit much for poor Bronstein.
“I—ah, skip it,” he moped, searching for an exit. “This can’t possibly get any worse, can it?”
Sure enough, lights appeared around the water fountain, and a mechanical Leonard Maltin popped out of the fucking wall.
“Greetings, jerk-off!” the wooden Maltin head screeched. “Do you remember—“
Cutting Maltin off, Jack screamed, “Jerthansia! What have they done to my magical dream?”
“Ah, shut up, jerk-off! Ah ha ha ha ha! Do you remember Jean-Claude van Damme’s thrilling performance in 1993’s Hard Target? HA HA HA HA HA. It was the first movie legendary director John Woo made in the
Bronstein was in tears.
“Here’s what happened to Henriksen,” Maltin went on. “He forgot to prioritize.”
The word ‘prioritize’ echoed until Jack thought it was going to drive him out of his skull.
“See for yourself,” the weird wooden head screeched. “JERK-OFF!!!”
Sweating bullets, Alien/Predator/Terminator victim Lance Henriksen appeared from around the corner.
Lance blew the mechanical Leonard Maltin head to smithereens.
“Lance!” Jack exclaimed.
Henriksen waved his rifle.
Jack held up his .45.
It was a “let’s compare erections” moment. Like in a John Woo movie.
Henriksen calmly wiped the soot and gunpowder off his shiny pink smoking jacket and casually loaded up his gun with more grapeshot.
“Well,” grinned the erstwhile Emil Fouchon. “Let’s hunt some Fat Guy.”
RE-ASSESS MY PRIORITIES, MY ASS:
THE HARDEST TARGET OF THEM ALL
Movie poster
“Bronstein finally gets to the bottom of things.
Will he ever see his Aunt Jerthansia again?
Why would a bunch of Clones with plenty of food and free parking just up and rebel against their master?
Does the righteous man sometimes go astray?
Do you know?
Do you WANT to know?
Well, get off your ass and visit your local theater.
That is, if you care about yourself—or anyone else, for that matter.
RE-ASSESS MY PRIORITIES, MY ASS:
THE HARDEST TARGET OF THEM ALL
Written by Dick Sharkwater
Edited by Shack Creekwaters
Produced by Steven Seagal
Titles by Lick-Spittle
Additional Dialogue by David Mamet
Production Designer Ridley Scott
Security by Smith and Wesson
Music by Patrick Doyle
Directed by Cade Bronto
STARRING
Jean-Claude van Damme as “Bronstein”
Chuck Norris as Lance Henriksen
Lance Henriksen as Charles Bronson
Judge Reinhold as Dice Dickman
Kathy Najimy as Aunt Jerthansia
Jude Law as Elmer
David Caruso as Lenny “Mock” Mockowski
Jennifer Lopez as Twixie LaBelle
Jon Lovitz as Mojax
AND
John Schneider as “Wilford”
The poster looked great.
Jack and Lance looked great.
“Hold up,” Lance said, holding a cigarette. “Smoke this over for a second. Is this a movie?”
Jack shrugged nonchalantly.
Wouldn’t you?
Lance continued, “Or is it real? You know?”
Bronstein flipped a shiny silver coin and called it ‘tails.’
“I got it, Lance,” he smiled. “Movie! Heh heh.”
“Okay,” Lance said, billowing smoke. “In that case, what’s up with the title? I think it stinks. It’s too long.”
Jack cracked, “Yeah, that’s what she said,” and lit a cigar.
“I’m serious, Jack,” Lance fumed. “How about Hard Target 2, or The Hunt Continues?”
Jack puffed on his cigar and frowned.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, Lance,” he said quietly.
Lance ‘cocked’ his rifle and shouted, “You goddamn son of a bitch Revolting Cocks LP. If I say it’s a bad title, it’s a bad title. What the HELL do you know?”
Jack took a look around, calmly assessing his priorities.
“Well,” he said. “I know one thing.”
Lance growled, “What’s that?”
“I know I’m quicker on the draw than you. You feelin’ lucky?”
“Fix the title,” Lance said.
Jack ‘cocked’ his gun and smiled, “How about I fix you?”
“SON OF A BITCH!” Lance cried, pulling the trigger.
Jack executed one of those “van Dammes” and dodged Lance’s bullet.
Lance missed.
Jack didn’t.
“Aagh,” Lance groaned. “You LUCKY son of a bitch…this shit ain’t over yet…straight? AAGHH…”
Jack dropped his gun and made sure Lance was dead. When you shoot Lance Henriksen, you make sure he’s dead.
Get it?
Lance was dead.
Jack fixed his hair in the mirror and whistled a funeral dirge.
“I need a change of scenery,” he sighed. “Grade school sucks.”
Like a man possessed, Jack Bronstein fought his way through a cafeteria full of robot lizard drones.
I don’t know how they got there.
Neither did Jack.
In any event, he smacked the shit out of them. Big time.
He made it to the boiler room.
Vin Diesel was nowhere in sight.
But Jack did see Charles Bronson.
Was he a ghost?
“He’s right, Jack,” Bronson said.
“Are you a ghost?”
“No, Jack,” Bronson laughed. “I’m not a ghost. Like I was saying, Lance is right. This shit AIN’T over.”
Just to get things rolling, Bronson punched Bronstein in the stomach ten times and mashed his face in some potato salad
Charles laughed evilly.
“Evil is like potato salad,” he grinned. “It’s even worse when you’re at school. Don’t you agree, Jack?”
Vigilante man slapped Jack in the face until the potato salad was all runny.
“How does that taste?” Charles laughed.
Jack gasped, “Bronson, what are you doing?”
He grabbed a crobar and clubbed Chuck in the stomach.
“Come on, Bronson! We go way back! We opened a burrito house. What gives, man?”
Then it happened.
Jack swung the crobar at Charles’ face and made contact.
The crobar clanged against Charles’ face with a metallic ‘clang.’ This clearly was not your father’s Bronson.
“You’re not Bronson!” Jack gasped, horrified.
“No,” the celluloid vigilante smiled. “I’m Biddaddy.”
Biddaddy raised his thermonuclear crossbow and spit on the floor.
“The Fat Guys sent you!” Jack winced.
Biddaddy laughed a thousand laughs and cried, “I ate the Fat Guys for dinner last night, Bronstein!”
Jack cringed.
“With some fava beans…and a COKE!”
Biddaddy proceed to continue the ass-beating job he’d begun as Bronson.
“Ugh,” Jack muttered. “I liked you better as Bronson, jag-off!”
“Same difference,” the evil one shrugged. “An ass-beatin’s an ass-beatin’. WAHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
Jack went for broke. He grabbed Biddaddy’s crossbow by the ‘trigger,’ flipped it around, and squeeze off six shots.
Biddaddy, reeling, swung at Jack wildly.
“Jag-off!” he screamed. “It takes seven shots to kill me. Seven!”
Then he vanished.
Jack wandered out of Sagebrecht Elementary and grabbed a swing.
“Man alive,” he mused, more to himself than to anyone else. “What the HELL kind of ending was THAT?”
BOB NEMTUSAK PRESENTS
HARD TARGET TWO:
THIS TIME IT’S REALLY HARD
IMAGINARY CAST
Lance Henriksen as Jack Bronstein
Charles Buchinski as the Biddaddy
Bruce Willis as “Bronson”
Jon Lovitz as Mojax
Stephen McHattie as Lance Henriksen
Mel Gibson as Jesus
Carre Otis as Rachel Dratch
Kathy Najimy as Aunt Jerthansia
Judge Reinhold as Sagebrecht Elementary Guidance Counselor Dice Dickman
Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay as Sly
Tahnee Welch as Boobs LaTouche
Wilford Brimley as Duvee
Raquel Welch as Hootie LaTouche
David Caruso as Lenny ‘Patch’ Wompzinksi
John Glover as Dr. Frankenstein
AND
James Gandolfini as The Monster
MUSIC BY GRAEME REVELL
“HANDS ON THE BIDDADDY”
Written by Elton John and Ellen DeGeneres
Performed by Carly Simon, Glenn Frey, and Pat Benatar
SEE IT TONIGHT!
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