Peppers and popcorn E-Book

Remo F. J. Mancini

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

On a mountain property in the Marche region, Italy, Biagio Marasco receives an unexpected visit. The stranger, in need of a ride, drags him against his will into a reckless yet unsuccessful escape from mysterious secret agents. It's the beginning of a disturbing and bizarre series of events that will change the life of the lonely cinephile forever. Guinea pig for an experiment, Biagio will be catapulted into a dreamlike dimension created by his own conscience; Hollywood stars with anthropomorphic features and peppers galore, in what will prove to be a journey of redemption.

Leseprobe

Indice

Prologue

1 Action!

2 Hit and Run

3 Fear and Chaos

4 Through the Mirror

5 Red Carpet

6 Contact

7 Pork

8 Monstrous Hunger

9 Culvert Motel

10 Suicide Mission

11 A Door Opens…

12 The Cult of Death and Dawn

13 The Dreamer

Halftime

INTERMISSION The Merchant

INTERMISSION The Sensational Stain-Removing Formula of Super-Soda-Muscle

14 Ten Years Later

15 Damn Sexy

16 Free for all

17 Over the Hills and Far Away

18 Gang Bang!

19 Promised Land

20 The Final Showdown

Epilogue

Credits

The Demon

BONUS SCENE The Gobbes Cloud

Remo F.J. Mancini

Titolo | Peppers and popcorn

Autore | Remo F. J. Mancini

ISBN | 9791222724768

© 2024. Tutti i diritti riservati all'Autore

Questa opera è pubblicata direttamente dall'Autore tramite la piattaforma di selfpublishing Youcanprint e l'Autore detiene ogni diritto della stessa in maniera esclusiva. Nessuna parte di questo libro può essere pertanto riprodotta senza il preventivo assenso dell'Autore.

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Made by Human

Prologue

I’ve roamed the length and breadth of this damned country and now, finally, I have found his location. It’s raining, it’s late at night and I, a poor loser with unkempt hair and threadbare clothes, stand like an idiot in the middle of the street, catatonic, totally drenched by the rain’s fury. After a long pause spent convincing myself that I’d made it, I take the driveway to the nondescript house and, shaking, knock on the door.

The door is actually a security door, and the poor loser is just a tired, anguished man in a terrible mental state, who answers to the name of Biagio.

There’s no response from inside, so I knock a couple more times, hard. It’s cold and partly because of this, partly because of the hunger, I can’t stop shaking.

Once again, silence.

Seized by desperation, I cling to the long locks of brittle hair and, screaming, I throw myself on the door, smashing my face. A hot, metallic liquid runs down my skin, but that’s okay, it doesn’t matter. I get up and do it again. And again. On the third time a light comes on and the door opens wide. On the threshold, a second individual, tall, robust with a pale complexion, is horrified at the sight of my pitiful figure, lying bloodied at his feet.

“B-Biagio? Is that you?” he stammers as he puts on a pair of very expensive Ray-Bans to see me properly.

The mask of blood moves under the dark tangle of hair and our eyes meet:

“I found you, you son of a bitch.”

“You’ve set yourself out nicely... cute, I must say”

“What the hell are you doing here? And what happened to you? What the hell were you thinking? How did you find me?”

“I need you to take me to him. I have to go back” “What? Go back? Forget what you’ve seen, the games are over. We got the information we needed.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you guys got! I’ve seen those things! TAKE ME TO HIM, GODDAMMIT!”

“Keep your voice down, please, Karen and the baby are sleeping...”

A sudden, disarming silence falls on the pathetic scene.

“So, you’re a father now… that was quick! Congratulations. The perfect happy family, huh?” It’s crazy, in a way I’m happy for him but at the same time I could strangle him to death with my bare hands. I step into the spacious state-of-the-art kitchen, which must have cost him at least ten grand, and I tear off several sheets of paper towel from a big hanging roll. Dropping onto a swivel stool, I begin to clean the wound.

“Why do you want to go back there so badly?”

“What the fuck, come on...”

“No, really, what’s so special about it?”

“Look, I didn’t come here to tell you about my business, just give me an address, a phone number, any fucking piece of information. Do me this favor and I won’t kill you with my own hands, here and now.”

He looks at me amazed, even paler than before. The idiot shakes his head, as if to suggest that I’m bluffing, that I’d never have the guts to leave his child without a father… then, suddenly, a new expression on his face, the awareness of understanding something that had previously escaped him. Now he knows, he knows I’d do it… fuck, I’d rip that shitty grin right off his face!

He swallows, tells me to wait a moment and crosses the room and disappears behind a door. Upon his return he hands me what looks like a business card.

“There, that’s all I have. Now, please, leave us alone, Biagio,” he says, walking me to the door. “I don’t know what you expect to happen.”

I turn to look at him for what I’m sure will be the last time: “Give me a cigarette and go back to bed.”

1

Action!

The memories come back clearly in my mind. I relive my story like the hero of a movie, probably one directed by David Lynch, where events take such a strange turn that nothing seems to make sense.

It must have been about noon when, looking up from the pile of boards, I realized I was out of nails. I cursed. However, it was not that revelation that made me curse, but the image of a man frantically walking up the path towards my property. Now I wouldn’t describe myself as a freak or a misanthrope, but I had been careful not to buy a house in the city or in the middle of a town inhabited by sanctimonious old bigots. I needed to be alone. Until then, no one had ever dared to walk down the dirt road leading to my house, hidden among the trees on the mountains in the Marche countryside.

The man, a big blond guy, pale as a sheet and clearly dressed as a tourist, was coming towards me waving his arms. I ran my fingers into the bristly hairs of my beard and couldn’t help but let out a grunt at the sight of this stubborn fat man clambering up the path. He reminded me of Richard Griffiths, only much younger and far less classy. I thought of some foreigner, probably a German, lost on his way to his summer residence, or who had left his broken-down car back on the road, deciding to walk up here, heedless of the deterrent signs posted at the entrance to the path. I freshened up by immersing my dark hair in a tub, temporarily positioned under a tap, and decided to welcome him.

“Hello, sorry for the intrusion. I saw the no access sign, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. There’s no signal here, I can’t use my phone, and since this seems to be the only house in the area…”

The boy had finally come within a few feet of me and I could see him clearly now. Big and tall, he could easily have been the classic tourist come to Italy to enjoy our suffocating July heat. He wore a pair of Ray-Ban style glasses, or some cheap imitation, a white t-shirt soaked in sweat, khaki Bermuda shorts and the inevitable sandals over thick socks.

From the accent, however, I guessed that I was at least wrong about his origins. He was certainly Italian, Tuscan maybe.

“The signs clearly say, ‘KEEP OUT’ and ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG AND THE OWNER’” I said grimly.

“I don’t see a dog…”

“That’s true, but the owner’s right in front of you. State your business and I’ll see if I can help you. Otherwise, get lost.”

I didn’t mean to be rude, but it’s always like this with people, if you act too helpful, they’ll screw you over, that’s for sure. After all, I had to run down to the general store to buy some nails, which is why I had to get rid of him before it closed.

“I’m Ariele, Ariele Martini, nephew of Franco Martini, the owner of the bar in the square down in Comunanza. I was on my way to visit him, but I’m afraid my car broke down. I tried to hitchhike for a while, but nobody ever passes by, so…”

“So, Michele?”

“Ariele”

“Daniele?”

“Ariele!”

“What did I say? Anyway, it’s your lucky day boy, I’m about to head down to Comunanza for an errand, but I won’t take you all the way to the cemetery. The trip ends where my car stops. You can walk from there - I can see you’re perfectly capable of that.”

“Ce-cemetery, you said?”

The big boy took off his cheap glasses and stared at me in a daze. Jesus, here I am having to nail the last planks to the walls of the house and I suddenly find myself chatting to this boy from who knows where, dressed like a German tourist, and whose grandfather, owner of that hellhole in town, has been stone dead for ages!

“Shit… I thought you knew. Your grandpa dies and no one tells you?” I tried to vaguely justify myself.

The guy lowered his gaze and I noticed a couple of tears fall on the dusty floor. Great, now he was crying.

“Never mind,” he said after a while, “I’ll get out of your hair, thanks anyway.”

I watched him turn and walk down the street with his head down. Seeing him like this made me feel a mixture of pity and amusement; he looked like an albino version of Charlie Chaplin walking away in his bizarre penguin-like way. I might almost have expected him to do that silly mid-air hop that became iconic.

“Wait! Hey, boy, wait! ARIELE!” I ran after him with my hand outstretched.

“My name’s Biagio, Biagio Marasco.” The big crybaby looked at me surprised and returned the handshake. “Wait here, I’ll go get the car.”

The old red Fiat Punto 75 ran like a beauty on the bumpy road that descended from the mountain. Of course, it was a coffin on wheels, considering the very modest 176,205 miles traveled, the problems with the radiator, and the spare tire that had been mounted pretty much from the start. That fucking car had driven me for years in all the worst nooks and crannies of the country, saving my ass when I had to sneak out, holding out when the suspension was put to the test, and proudly carrying me to my destination when the warning light stayed on for days. Scorched by the sun and dusted by the arid loose earth of the clearing where it was parked, it darted elegantly along hairpin bends, carrying me and the loser outsider.

I decided it was time for a cigarette, so I pulled out the pack of Lucky Strikes from my jeans pocket and stuck one between my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ariele staring at me and considered offering him one. What the hell, at times like these you can’t not need nicotine! But the boy surprised me by shaking his head. I studied him with a frown and tucked the now half-empty packet safely into my jeans.

“Are you quitting?” I asked, if only to put an end to that unbearable silence.

“No, I never started. My mum wouldn’t take it well at all.” His voice was shaky and his expression hinted at a deep sense of unease. At this point, I realized he was just a lost and confused boy, who probably left home after a big argument with that ugly woman of a mother of his, and who had set out in search of his grandfather across the Apennines.

“Tell me, how old are you? 20, 21…?”

“26, and you?”

“26? You’re 26 and you let your mother tell you what you should or shouldn’t do? Come on, I can see it in your eyes that you want one... here, take it!”

I handed him a cigarette again and he hesitantly accepted it. He contemplated it in awe, as if I’d just given him a fifty euros bill. I reached inside my faded jeans with my right hand and took out my lighter.

On the way, he told me about his pathetic life, how right I was in suspecting his mother was ugly, and his mediocre part-time job in a computer store. His Tuscan origins were also confirmed. Not even fifteen minutes later, we reached our destination and, rethinking my conditions, I parked in the large asphalt parking lot of the general store.

“Wait for me here, I’ll be quick. I need to pick something up and I’ll be back, then I’ll take you to the cemetery and maybe even to a good mechanic, so he can fix that clunker for you,” I said, and the big guy nodded shyly.

I opened the door, got out of the car and walked towards the door of the store, glancing quickly at the familiar worn, yellowed ‘HARDWARE’ sign with faded letters that had changed color from red to a dull pink. I turned the handle and went inside, and I was immediately hit by a blast from the air conditioning.

“What the hell, Gio’, it’s like the North Pole in here! Fix that damn air conditioner!” I greeted him as I walked towards the counter.

Old Giorgio looked at me with his typical “this old fuck’s here” expression. Amused, I held his gaze, without lingering for more than a few seconds. Staring at him made me uncomfortable, perhaps because of that big proud lump between his thick gray eyebrows, or because of his embarrassing comb over... or maybe both.

“I do whatever the fuck I want with my air conditioner!” he barked at me, spraying gallons of saliva at me and pointing a trembling finger at the device. The poor bastard had started showing the first symptoms of Parkinson’s disease for the last couple of years, and he was now suffering from constant and severe involuntary spasms. “Tell me what you want and get the fuck out of here, Marasco!” he added sharply.

“Three packets of nails. Big ones, Gio’!”

I settled the bill and covered some previous debts, too. The old man was a curmudgeon, but at least he had always allowed me credit when I couldn’t make ends meet. And I, in one way or another, had always paid up.

I said goodbye to Gio’ with a cordial “fuck you” and, as I was walking back to my car, it all happened, pretty much in a handful of seconds.

A black Lexus with tinted windows pulled up alongside my Punto and vomited two dressed-up, gorilla- like men. Ariele freed himself from the seat belt, opened the door and tried to flee, but the apes jumped on him, blocking him and dragging him inside their luxurious vehicle.

As for me, I don’t remember anything other than the terror on the boy’s face, a strong, sharp pain at the back of the neck, and total darkness.

2

Hit and Run

Investigator Loris Costantini was what you might call “a straight-shooter.” I liked calling him “detective.” It’s so “American crime show.” I hate Americans, but they sure know how to make fucking epic movies.

Loris was a stocky, dark, square-headed man of medium height, a sort of poor man’s Jeremy Renner. He lived and worked in Rome, where he spent all day spying on hundreds of lustful housewives dissatisfied with their husbands, getting a once-over from the plumber, gardener or neighbor on duty.

“After all, what’s a woman? A life-support system for a cunt?” he was often heard repeating, quoting some character from Stephen King. He wasn’t sexist or a misogynist, but between his bleak job and his apathetic wife, he had begun to find the opposite sex somewhat less interesting.

For more than twenty years he had dedicated his life to investigation, hoping that some big, juicy crime case would catapult him into the spotlight; for more than twenty years he had done nothing but console hundreds of cuckolded losers in his scruffy office in the Tuscolana neighborhood. Bitter dissatisfaction and lack of fulfillment had led his Roman ass to warm up the stools of the worst suburban pubs every single day, and to drown his depression in liters of poor quality spirits. Hell of a dog! His liver must be in pieces by now...

In any case, it was his persistent hunger for glory and his desire to break the monotony of that consuming routine that led him, on July 28, 2017, to decide to follow some telegram-style instructions on a piece of paper found under the door of his office. The message was a tip off about a future murder due to take place in a remote village at the foot of the Apennines in the Marche region. Loris probably hadn’t even remotely worried about the reliability of the anonymous informant and had no doubt seen an opportunity to spend some time away from his frigid wife.

That same morning he had gone to the office as usual and had arrived late, as always. The office opening hours, printed on a plaque on his door, read something like 8 a.m.-12 noon and 4 p.m.-8 p.m.; however, the effects of the increasingly habitual evening drinking led him to open shop no earlier than nine. And this day was no exception.

He told me he’d found the envelope slipped under the glass door of his office and it was impossible not to see it, as it was so thick it prevented the door from opening. He’d picked it up with little interest and thrown it on the desk. Only after a few puffs from his Toscano cigar and downing an espresso, he sat down in his armchair to examine its contents.

Jesus Christ! I have to stop here and congratulate myself for remembering every single detail of his excruciatingly dull story. Of course, considering the current state of affairs, the fact that I’m still in possession of my memories is a miracle. Memories, among other things, to which I can cling firmly.

Anyways, back to Loris. He opened the envelope and read:

07/29/2017, Comunanza (AP).

Someone will die, YOU will prevent it.

The message had been printed from a computer and stood out on that A4 sheet in all its chilling sterility. I know the contents of it word for word because he was constantly waving the damned piece of paper when he saved our asses.

He leapt from his armchair continuing to stare at the paper with wide eyes, and in a matter of seconds he fully convinced himself to leave without even returning home. He got in his Volkswagen station wagon, darted like crazy through the streets of the capital and took the A90 motorway at full speed, arriving shortly after at the toll booth of the A24. Tutto il resto è noia, as good old Franco Califano sang.

In the meantime, Ariele and I were unknowingly awaiting our savior who, the evening before, must have taken a room somewhere in town. We killed time by getting properly tormented by the fancy looking apes.

When I came to, I discovered that I had been tied and gagged like a salami to what must have been the most uncomfortable chair on the planet, and that my head had been covered with a filthy jute sack. Not to mention the stabbing pains in the back of my neck, a delightful consequence of the blow I had received that knocked me out. A strange gurgling to my left made me aware of Ariele’s presence, although I wasn’t sure he was enjoying that fun little day trip.

I jumped. I tried to stay calm and concentrate on something else, peering through the holes in the sack’s weave, but all I could see was black. One of the gorillas suddenly screamed, speaking in English and in a tone that wasn’t very reassuring. His voice bounced off the walls of the room, rumbling in my ears, which were taut as violin strings and alert to any sign of imminent danger. I suspected that we had been taken to some old, abandoned house, probably not far from where our merry outing had begun.

The stranger bellowed again, and this time I heard Ariele tossing and moaning in pain and tears. Disorientation gave way to terror, and I had enough of that wailing. With my fingers, I examined the ropes around my wrists… nothing. The sons of bitches had me properly pinned down. I decided to try to force the knot anyway, but I didn’t even have time to think about it before I regained my sight. The first thing I noticed was that they hadn’t dragged us to a hut, but to some cave in the mountains. The second thing I noticed was a large bald man in front of me, 6’6” and as big as a tree trunk, glaring at me, like a rodeo bull in a foul mood. I jumped again, and for the first time I wondered what the hell that sniveling Tuscan idiot could have done to invoke the rage of these individuals.

“Your turn, son of a bitch!” he growled, pointing at me, and with the speed and skill of an expert in his field, he ripped off my gag and balled the jute sack right into my mouth.

God bless the timeliness of Loris-fucking-Costantini!

“Nobody move! What the fuck is going on here?” began Loris theatrically, entering the cave, armed with a gun. The bald man, like his other two colleagues, turned abruptly toward the intruder.

“Now you’re screwed! What the hell did you think you were doing, huh? Hands up and face the wall!”

The three torturers were stunned. They seemed to understand our language after all. Loris came toward us kissing the sacrosanct piece of paper that had prompted him to rush from Rome to the Sibylline mountains to help us.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m a private investigator. I called the carabinieri, they’ll be here soon,” he explained as he freed us. I sought Ariele with my eyes - he was exhausted. Who knows what torments he had suffered while I was unconscious, but above all, who knows what he could have done that was so serious!

I would ask him later, probably not overly politely. Loris finished unraveling the last loop around my wrists and I jumped up, taken by a sudden rush of adrenaline. Now it was my turn to throw some punches. But, as I turned, ready for action, one of the gorillas leapt forward, throwing himself onto Loris.