Bay vs. His Birthday pt. 2
Battlestar Galactica NonStop Karate…
Bay! Cage! Assistant!
An Unstoppable Army of Prostitutes bent on love… and MURDER!
And Now, Part Two of Michael Bay vs His Birthday!
Bay: Everyone be careful, I don’t know where a lot of these trip wires go.
Assistant: Then why were they set?
Bay: I’m sure drunk me had a really good reason for setting all of these. This may come as a shock to some of you, but when I start drinking, I get kind of mouthy and I can get on people’s nerves. Unfortunately my phone contains numbers for everyone from Samoan gun runners, top shelf barely legal poon, to several branches of the Triads. God knows who I called. That’s why we set traps, to protect the world from drunk us.
Assistant: Actually, where is your phone? We could check the call history and figure out what you did.
Bay: That’s why I pay you the big bucks. Cage, call my phone.
Cage: Yes, I walk around all day with a government tracking device in my pocket that if I should die would interrupt my electromagnetic signal from downloading into the celestial hard drive that stores and transmits all understanding and truth back into the universe. That sounds exactly like something I would have on my person.
Bay: Where do you get your drugs?
Cage: They just show up.
Bay: All right, you call the hot line.
Assistant: I only have your work phone. You refused to give me the number to your “fun phone.”
Bay: It’s 1-800-Make-Fuck.
Assistant: Fuck you.
Bay: Whoa, wait, what?
Assistant: Sorry. Reflex. Is that a number I’m actually supposed to call?
Bay: Of course.
*Assistant looks pained, and clutches her chest*
Cage: Are you all right? Do you require my intervention?
Assistant: I just realized I completely depend on Mr. Bay to make rent, pay for groceries, put gas in my car. My entire life out here depends on the man who buys claymores by the box and has the phone number 1-800-Make-Fuck.
Bay: There will be plenty of time for us to talk about our favorite thing that I do, but right now we have to find that phone.
*Assistant dials the number*
Bay: Fuckstart my face, it’s on vibrate.
Cage: Hang on, if I can dial in on the frequency, I can send a counter vibration to destroy the device.
Bay: No, Nic, goddamnit, we’re trying to find it.
Cage: My grasp on what we’re actually trying to accomplish is tenuous at best.
Assistant: It went to voicemail.
Bay: Call it again. This time everyone shut the fuck up.
The group moves around the room silently, trying to see if they can hear the vibration.
Suddenly there’s a loud explosion. Assistant throws herself to the ground, Cage pulls out an Ankh, but holds it like a gun. Bay runs towards the sound of the explosion.
Bay: I am so fucking hard right now.
Bay runs down a hallways and kicks in the door, leaping into the room.
Assistant and Cage run in seconds after. The room is filled with syringes stuck into the walls. Sitting in the middle of all of this is a scarred man, covered in tattoos.
Bay: Boris? What the fuck are you still doing here?
Boris: (thick Russian accent) Getting wasted.
Assistant: Who the hell is this? One of your bodyguards?
Bay: Boris? Bodyguard? (laughs) He spends most of his time trying to kill me.
Boris: Da. I am not liking his face.
Bay: We met in a club in Kiev and he wouldn’t let me fuck his girlfriend.
Boris: I make offer. Fair trade. He slaps my woman.
Bay: Fair trade, my ass. And she had it coming. Long story short, I spent four months in the Ukraine building a criminal empire to kill Boris.
Assistant: And now you just hang out?
Bay: He’s easily the most cunning and worthy adversary I’ve ever had. Do you have any idea how boring my life would be if I didn’t think my car could explode anytime I start it, or if I’m out in the open, Boris could be looking at me through a sniper’s scope?
Boris: After surviving communism, democracy, whatever else they try, I am without purpose. Killing Mikhail gives me purpose.
Assistant: Why are you so calm when the man who is trying to kill you is within striking distance and making explosions?
Bay: There are rules. Our honor won’t let us kill a man who’s hungover, in the middle of fucking, directly after fucking, and never on sacred ground.
Assistant: So why did we hear an explosion if he’s not trying to kill you?
Bay: This is the Ring of Fire room. You know those drink carousels that hold a bunch of bottles and pour the “perfect shot?”
Bay: Those take too long. So I had my guys take the basic concept and redesign it to shoot 3 dozen syringes filled with different kinds of booze at you simultaneously. It’s like a drink carousel, but redesigned as a flechette cannon.
Cage: An elegant solution to a problem we’ve all encountered.
Assistant: There are so many things wrong with that statement. First off, drinking’s fun. You don’t need a way to get there faster.
Bay: Do you have any idea how much it takes people like us to just get buzzed? Cage is drinking ash and bone juice, and Boris is actually from Eastern Europe.
Assistant: That is your fault! You are not a victim because your tolerance is inhumanly high! You should feel bad about that!
Assistant: Second, there is nothing “elegant” about booze cannon. This is probably dangerous.
Bay: There’s no probably about it. That’s shooting dozens of syringes at you, all traveling at about 2500 feet per second. Frankly I’m surprised only seven people have died.
Boris walks over to the wall, pulls a syringe out, and injects what’s in it into his neck.
Assistant: Why are you like this?!
Bay: Because I blew out my adrenals! Okay?! You know how your mom always tells you not to storm a Mexican drug cartel compound even if they short you on your order of product and Mexican soap opera stars? Well I did it! I grabbed a grenade launcher and an old Cadillac convertible and blew up their gate and drove in, running over everyone I didn’t explode! I rescued the soap opera stars who thanks to a language barrier didn’t realize I was the guy initially planning to kidnap them! They were so excited and grateful, three of them started blowing me in the car while I was still returning fire! I was turning around to blow up the last of the helicopters and didn’t see where I was going, and drove through a mountain of cocaine! Then I drove off a cliff! My car hurtled toward the earth taking out the left wing of the escaping cartel head’s private jet. The plane crashed into the mountain, and my car fell through the flaming wreckage of that, and into an opium field! Thanks to the coke, me and the soap opera stars fucked for nine weeks straight! I was dehydrated and I had to go to rehab to teach my system to stop rejecting any nourishment that wasn’t raw opium! My body can’t produce adrenaline anymore! That’s why I do the stuff that I do! It’s why I set off explosions five feet from the director’s chair! It’s why I inject cobra venom! It’s why I invented a cannon that fires booze and medical instruments at people! It’s why I never press charges against Boris! So I can remember what it feels like to be alive!
Assistant: I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea.
Bay: Now you do! You’re in! Welcome to the secret circle! There is no going back! You’ll have to get blacklight tattoo on the inside of your bottom lip! We’re going to have to buy you a gun! This! All of this! This is your new normal! Are you happy?
Bay: Tough titties! The orgies, the illegal fighting tournaments in the wilds of Canada, the taste of blue whale flesh, you’re a fucking lifer now. Oh, heads up, the other day I blew up a Scientology center that was in my shot. So welcome to that particular shadow war!
Cage: You’ll also have to help me battle the dimensional echoes that represent incursions into our reality from hostile planes of existence.
Bay: Yeah! You believe in ghosts now! Fuck! *breathes deeply and gathers self* Boris, at what point in the night did you and I meet up?
Boris: I storm your party with 17 ex-Black Sea Marines. Very dangerous men. You killed 12. Two with bare hands. Very impressive.
Bay: I’ve been going to Krav.
Boris: *spits* Israeli pattycake. You escape in car. I chase Los Angeles airport.You take tactical policemen’s van. Total my car. Kill rest of my team. I chase you inside. You board airplane. I board different airplane. We both go to Vegas. You parachute out into desert. Is when I lose you. I find you here. Making party. I stay for party.
Assistant: Okay, that’s Malibu to LAX, and LAX to Vegas. What’d you do in Vegas before you came to the hotel?
Bay: We need to find that phone. Call it again.
The entire group returns to the living room.
Assistant: It went to voicemail. But it’s ringing, so it’s still on.
Hooker: Call the phone again…I’m so close…
Out of the pile of sleeping prostitutes emerges Lexus.
Lexus: Someone needs to call that phone, again.
Bay: Of course! That’s why we couldn’t find or hear the phone. I jammed it up one of my loyal hookers. Lexus, when did I put that phone inside you?
Lexus: Shit, baby, the last five days have been a blur. I don’t even know what time of day it was. You just told me that you hated cold phones and that the Yakuza couldn’t find that phone, so you hid it in me. Now, can someone please call the number again?
Bay: You heard her. Get this hooker off.
Bay: This what we do behind closed doors. We get hookers off with phones. This is real life.
One orgasm and thorough and graphic fisting/retrieval later…
Bay: According to my call history, as soon as I got here, I called Lexus to get the UPA mobilized to pick me up.
Lexus: But you were too far out. We didn’t know where you were. By the time we got the Huey’s up and running you showed up with Nicky. Hey, Nicky.
Cage: Well met, woman of the night.
Bay: Hey, that’s right. Nic, when did you show up?
Cage: I had acquired some Africanized Honeybees from…a friend… and had kept them enclosed in a greenhouse allowing them only access to plants that produce the medicines I use to do my work. I stripped naked and then let them sting me so I might understand the insect mind, and become immune to it’s powers. I felt compelled to go out into the desert and found a colony.
Assistant: Then naked and poisoned by thousands of bees, you ran into Mr. Bay.
Cage: Ran into, or drawn towards?
Bay: So I met you guys at UPA HQ?
Lexus: Yeah, then you got a phone call, and ordered us to level five city blocks.
Assistant: Did you actually level five blocks?
Lexus: Oh, hell yes.
Bay: Let’s see: I texted Dennis Hopper, and he texted back. That shouldn’t be. I told Scarlett Johansson I was going to eat out her asshole for nine hours. I called the White House…23 times. Shit.
Bay: My last call was to David Lo-Pan.
Cage: By the quantum presence…
Assistant: Wait, David Lo Pan? From that Kurt Russell movie with Kim Cattral?
Bay: If by “Kurt Russell movie” you mean that “well-done, thoughtful, documentary about supernatural Chinese organized crime, that just so happened to have Kurt Russell in it,” then yes, that David Lo-Pan. Fuck. Do you think we killed him?
Lexus: Baby, if he’s alive, then he wishes he was dead. We killed almost all of his men then dropped that bunker buster the Air Force gave you as a thank you for Transformers 2 on his house. I don’t care how many Chinese Hells he’s got down there. We blew them all the fuck up.
Bay: If he’s not dead, he’s going to have to dig himself out, anyway. Eh, that’s future me’s problem. Fuck that old man. Okay, I got into a gunfight with Russians in LA, stole a plane, jumped out, did drugs in the desert with Nic Cage, went toe-to-toe with Chinese demon gangsters using a private army of prostitutes and military grade explosives, threw a party that consumed an entire floor of a Vegas hotel with the man who’s dedicated his life to ending mine, got laid, and slept in a crater after punting a dog. Is there any time not accounted for?
Beat. Beat. Beat.
Bay: Awesome. Let me fuck five or six of these chicks, and we’ll go get brunch.
Assistant: I’m going to go get cleaned up and meet you down there.
Bay: Oh no you’re not. Secret Circle members have to watch.
Assistant: What? Why?
Bay: To help me get better. This is like watching tape. Jesus. I’m going to have to completely retrain you, aren’t I?
Posted on February 28, 2011, in Character, Matt Loman, Movies, Pop Culture and tagged Bay, birfday, birthday, Cage, charitably described as fan fiction, explosions, Matt Loman, Michael Bay, Nic Cage, origin stories, origin story. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.