Blaze Claymore in: Cinema Purgatorio

You're so hypnotizing Could you be the devil? Could you be an ang- * click * The song is cut short; replaced by the sound of rushing wind coming from outside a tan colored, 1987 Saab 900 Turbo rolling down the 215 as night slowly turns to day. Nathan Lake: No thank you, Ms. Perry, the only E.T. that matters to me is the one directed by Steven Spielberg, written by Melissa Mathison, and stars Dee Wallace, Henry Thomas, and Drew Barrymore. Nathan moves awkwardly in the driver’s seat and reaches up to rub his forehead, partly from a nervous tic, partly from the fact that it was now the tenth hour of the third day of what had been the longest drive of his life — an accomplishment muted slightly by the fact he had only had his license for three years… He looks through the rearview mirror, to the back, on reflex.

Staring back at him are three suitcases of varying sizes and colors; basically anything he could find at Goodwill that still had padding and didn’t smell like rancid cheese, which was a hard sell in Montevideo… which, you will be disappointed to learn, does not translate to Video Mountain.

Instead, it’s biggest claim to fame? Being the hometown of professional competitive eater Francine Freitag, aka Freaky Freitag, who once finished 500 Buffalo wings in under 30 minutes.

Bone-in Buffalo wings. Insane by its very definition. Hollywood. 70 Miles. Nathan’s attention turns back immediately to the road in front of him as he lets out a nervous sigh, his free foot tapping under the steering column. After a few moments of silence he reaches up and puts his hand back on the radio dial. * click * Ricochet, you take your aim Fire away, fire away

You shoot me down, but I won't fall I am titanium! Nathan lets out a laugh under his breath, his body relaxing slightly.

Nathan Lake: Sorry, Franny.... guess you'll have to settle for being the second biggest thing from Montevideo.

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A burning sunset flickers in the distance framed by palm trees lining downtown Los Angeles. Then, the shot begins to move,  panning up with the warm orange and yellow tones of the horizon bleeding seamlessly into the ichor black of night…. Directed by Troy Casden *fade out* Johnny Ashcroft *fade out* Sierra Lane *fade out* Trent Maddox *fade out* Names continue to roll across a flatscreen TV standing freely on top of a generic yet tasteful set of drawers inside Ottawa's Fairmont Château Laurier – only the best for PRIME talent. Sonja Cuchilla: That was amazing, Clay. What a great film! That’s the kind of thing Hollywood should be making now, not… live action Snow White or Fast and the Furious number…. Whatever. Blaze Claymore: I think they’re on … 11 now? I kind of lost track after my part got cut out of one of them. Sonja Cuchilla: Wait. Really!? You were on a Fast and the Furious set? Blaze and Sonja are wrapped in a large blanket (Specifically, a comically large fleece blanket with Sylvester Stallone's face on it; some sort of giveaway… that Blaze stole from a dumpster outside one of a random sound stage years ago) with a bowl of mostly eaten popcorn between them. Blaze nods, but then pauses… Blaze Claymore: Or was that… Fast and the Furrious? Sonja punches him in the arm lightly as he gestures towards the screen. Blaze Claymore: I was in this one too. Sonja gasps. Sonja Cuchilla: No! Where? How did I miss you? Blaze pauses on the screen, you know, in that VERY long scroll of names you get near the end credits where they thank all of the CGI artists by placing their names tightly together in rows of five so no one can read them? That screen. He points at the mass of tightly packed names, where rows of text blur together into something resembling television static.

Blaze Claymore: See? Right… there. Middle row. Fifth from the right.

Sonja leans in, frowning, clearly unable to spot anything recognizable as Blaze shifts in his seat and rubs his forehead before pressing the play button, names rolling upwards once again. Blaze Claymore: It doesn’t matter. That was the past. Future’s all that counts now, right? His eyes shift over to a large “Movies n’ Stuff” bag with VHS tapes falling out of the top of it. Blaze Claymore: …that and what to do with all these damned movies. Shit. I was really going to make Annabelle feel bad about beating me too… make her realize the error of her ways and insist to Lindsay Troy that she never should have won and the record should reflect that! Blaze Claymore: 2 - 0! But then her pops fucked it all up… just like they always seem to. Blaze's attention seems to drift as a sneer crosses his face while the final credits roll. As the television returns to the main screen of Blaze’s Plex server, Sonja rubs his shoulder lightly and gestures over to the bag of VHS tapes. Sonja Cuchilla: Maybe we could watch one of them? I remember you telling me your favorite was when you got to be one of the hostages that gets sucked out of an airplane when the terrorists realize they hijacked the Secretary of Transportation’s plane and not the president’s. Blaze’s tone softens - slightly. Blaze Claymore: Yeah… Air Force Three: Mile High Madness. I got to jump out of a plane and everything… onto a plastic mat in an abandoned municipal airport. Sonja smirks. Sonja Cuchilla: That’s more than most people. Go ahead, let’s put it on. Blaze acquiesces with a sheepish smile and goes to search for it on the server but then his phone buzzes. He looks down and then over to Sonja. Sonja Cuchilla: Go ahead. I’ll go make more popcorn. Sonja stands up, the blanket falling from her waist to reveal a very tight set of pink underwear hugging her exposed midriff. Blaze turns away from his phone and looks over to the far side of the suite at the queen-sized bed and begins thinking of a way to suggest they skip the Netflix and Chill and go straight to Plex and Pump— but then his heart sinks, dropping from his chest to his stomach like the dummy Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood tossed from the overpass in The Good Son. Blaze Claymore: It’s the bookings. I’m on the card… Sonja Cuchilla: That’s great! A pause. Sonja Cuchilla: Against who?

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Blaze Claymore: Harley fuckin’ Walker We fade up to find the “Main Event” like we’ve rarely seen him on camera: stripped down. Not naked or anything, mind you, but dressed simply; almost pedestrian. We know it’s Blaze because of his ponytail and red sunglasses, but otherwise he looks like the kind of guy you’d find browsing the aisles of Hy-Vee at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning, rather than one about to perform in front of tens of thousands of Ottawans in a few weeks. We watch as Blaze, in a faded, grey Montevideo Thunder Hawks t-shirt over tattered jeans, walks the banks of the Ottawa River. Blaze Claymore: I’m at a loss for words. Something that I can guarantee everyone watching this right now would tell you is a rare sight. He kicks at the ground. Blaze Claymore: Shit man. I thought you died after jumping off the Eiffel Tower last year...  Blaze laughs to himself. Blaze Claymore: So stupid. You’d never let that happen… should have known. A pause. Blaze Claymore: But damn. THE Harley Walker in a match against Blaze Claymore? Man, I grew up watching you. Not just guys like you I mean you. Literally. The amount of movies you were in? Iconic. Sure, the average Joe may be looking for the face on the poster – the name on the marquee – but you were always the one who made the scene work. You just… you knew – they didn’t have a film without you being a part of it. Blaze reaches down and grabs a rock, examining it before deciding to try - and fail - skipping it across the water. Blaze Claymore: But now here you are — here we are — in the last place we ever expected. Fate works in mysterious ways, eh? I mean… maybe in a different timeline we’d be on set in L.A. and you’d be doing my stunts? Wouldn’t that be wild? He trails off as he shifts his pace slightly — nervously. He rubs his forehead just before the curl of a smile forms on his lips. Blaze Claymore: Instead, you get the one and only Main Event in your return match after nearly a year away… a stunt man going toe to toe with a bonafide movie star. A SAG* Award winner. A man the Minnesota Star Tribune called “idiosyncratic.” The smile turns into a grin. Blaze Claymore: You may be a goddamned legend, Harley, but you aren’t Blaze Claymore. Then the grin drops, Blaze holds a hand up to his head. Blaze Claymore: But I’m also not Harley Walker. Am I? A man who made a career out of defying limits — falling off skyscrapers, hanging onto the bottoms of planes, getting blown up, set on fire, and every other damned thing you could think of. Every wall you encountered you burst through it like the goddamned Kool-Aid Man. Blaze looks up, this time into the camera. Direct. Blaze Claymore: I could go on and on about you and your career, but what I really want to say to you, Harley, is that while we may be different from each other… together we’re something distinct. Cut from a different cloth — hell, a different fabric altogether. Blaze stops. Looking out over the river as he takes a breath and then looks back to the camera. Blaze Claymore: But… I’m also fucking scared. And saying that to a man who jumps off buildings for a living? Real stupid. But it’s the truth. You scare the hell out of me, man… Blaze looks back up, the smile is back. Blaze Claymore: …but not as scared as you should be of me. Blaze lets out a dry laugh, his personality swinging like a pendulum. Blaze Claymore: Here’s the thing, Harley. I respect you. Fuck, I’ll go ahead and say it - I LOVE you. But the one thing I’m not going to do is LOSE to you. Not in that ring. Not at ReVival. It’s not that I won’t, it’s because I ca— A pause. Blaze mutters something under his breath; it almost sounds like he's counting. But soon enough the Main Event looks up and removes his sunglasses. There's a silence ... painful and prolonged until, finally, Blaze speaks. Blaze Claymore: You may have a lot of experience being set ablaze, Harley, but you’re about to find out what it means to be engulfed by a Blaze. And you may be a daredevil, but here’s the devil’s truth: And you may be a daredevil, but here’s the devil’s truth: you’ve got a lengthy tab — carved deep into your skin — from cheating death for far too long... Blaze’s eyes go cold, his voice terse… and haunting. Blaze Claymore: Well, I’m here to collect.  

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The 900 Turbo sputters to a stop at the ARCO gas station just as the gas dial hits “E” and Nathan’s bladder hits “F.” Nathan Lake: Thank God. He looks over next to the pump and sees the price for Unleaded gasoline and winces. Nathan Lake: On second thought, fuck you, God. The 19-year-old pushes the driver’s side door open with a loud creeeeeeeeaaakkk sound and steps out into California’s early morning warmth… and surprisingly, it’s not all that warm. A little taste of home for a small-town Minnesota boy is all Nathan can think as he walks toward the convenience store sliding doors and reaches for his wallet. A smiling, perfectly tanned and gorgeous woman greets him as he steps in as the only customer around and, the way the woman is looking at him, maybe the only customer she’s seen during her shift. Young Woman: Heya! Welcome! Anything I can do ya for? Nathan squints, curiously and cautiously, not expecting that voice out of that woman. But he pushes forward, looking down at his wallet. Nathan Lake: Uhhhh. … $5 of gas? He looks behind the attendant. Nathan Lake: And a scratch ticket? Young Woman: You sure you’re old enough, sugar? Nathan pulls out his last $10 bill, and ID and sighs, sliding it across the counter, but the woman waves him away. Young Woman: Just joshin’! Here you go! And you’re good to go on pump five! Nathan slides her the cash and, as she makes change, he decides, against his better judgement, to ask. Nathan Lake: Are you… from here? The woman looks back at Nathan and flashes another smile, the white of her teeth just illuminating against her perfectly light brown skin. She holds out a couple of singles and a few coins toward Nathan. Young Woman: Oh! Nah. I’m from Minneapolis, actually. Nathan lights up. Nathan Lake: Oh, hey! I’m from Minnesota too. Montevideo. Go Thunder Hawks. As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets it and winces as he takes the change. Young Woman: Can’t say I know much about it, but always glad to meet a fellow ‘Sotan. Nathan Lake: So are you studying at USC? The woman laughs and shakes her head. Young Woman: I wish. Then maybe I would have landed a gig by now… Nathan pauses… Young Woman: But, as the saying goes … fake it until you make it, right? Or, in my case, fake it until you break it. Her voice falters, but she adjusts, quickly, and smiles back at Nathan. Young Woman: Well, enough about me. I gotta do some inventory from overnight anyways … but hey, good luck at USC! Nathan tries to correct her, but after a beat, decides against it and just nods, turning and walking out the door down $8.41 but up a gallon of gas and scratch ticket. As the sliding doors open back up, he glances up and sees it… The Hollywood sign. Staring right back at him. Nathan Lake: Huh. Bigger than I expected…

Nathan shoves the change and ticket into his jeans pocket as he goes to fill up the tank — the briefest smile forming on the edge of his lips.