Christmas Eve.
A few bells could still be heard at this hour of the night. It was cold, just like every December has been. The fireplace by the reading table provided a piercing solace in the darkness. He sat by it, pipe in his mouth, an old letter in his hand. It was a letter from one of the most acclaimed film-makers of his generation, praising him for changing cinema once and for all.
Letters, he thought. How manipulative they can be.
The present age has deprived humanity of this imagery. But he did not belong to this age. In his mind he was a man of past, sent to the future to correct it. In reality, he was an aging man, with the first few steps over the line of his prime.
He put the letter down on the table; removed his pipe and stared at the ceiling.
"Hello Mr. Tarantino!"
Quentin sat up with a start. Any voice inside his house was an impossibility tonight. What he saw in front of him nearly choked him.
Standing ahead was a deerstalker wearing, face covering, overcoat dangling figure with a smoking pipe. Shocked as he was by the presence of this intruder, Quentin reserved his poise and en-quired, "Who's this?"
"An immortal", came the reply. "And I've come to kill you."
Quentin rose halfway from his chair, "What the fuck!"
A gun came out swiftly into the hands of the figure from within the overcoat.
"Why don't you just calm down and relax, Mr. Tarantino. You and me have got a hell lot to talk about tonight."
The figure took a step closer, freezing the director on his chair. The gun came down on the letter. "You've got a nice place in here, sir. " The hat was removed, revealing a thick growth of hair. Then the face was introduced; bright eyes,a size 3 stubble, a long nose, smiling lips.
QT: "What's the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you?"
"I have disdain for people's stupidity or what they like to call lack of intelligence. But I take you for one of my kind. I will still let you answer who I am"
QT: Some crazy guy breaking into my apartment with a gun.
"Oh! Most of your deduction seems to be good except for me being crazy. But again, opinions like any other human tendencies have a right to exist. So, without further ado, let me introduce myself. I'm Sherlock Holmes."
QT: See if you've got to take anything just go ahead. No bullets, no talking. Just do your job and leave.
SH : I understand you doubting my ingenuity. I haven't been convincing enough, if not at all. But you must have heard me when I said that I'm here to kill you, right?
QT: Hey hey. I don't even know you. Is there anything I can do for you? You have a grudge against me or something?
SH : On the contrary my dear Quentin. I have nothing but respect for you and that is exactly what brings me here.
Quentin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Sherlock brings his palm on the table.
SH : Ah! A letter from Steven Spielberg! He praised you for Pulp it seems. Why wouldn't he ? We all did. You are so good Quentin; you are nearly as good as me.
Do you know what it means to be as good as me?
Pause.
SH : Immortality.
Sherlock picks up the gun and points it at Quentin's face.
QT : Hey please put it down. We are talking, ain't us?
SH : You do not talk too much tonight. You got it?
QT : Yes.
SH : Say "I got it".
QT : I got it.
SH : See, Quentin you have served your purpose on earth. You have always been Great. And you must know the curse of greatness, don't you? You are not allowed to be good anymore once you're great. But your last or as you prefer calling it, your Eighth, was far from being great. As a matter of fact Quentin, I have to ensure that you do not take a step more that deprives you of greatness. You see, this world we live in has seized to understand greatness. You are the sole flag bearer at present. It is imperative that you revel in your glory. For in all the ages, the ghost greats live on in the present ones. Killing you will ensure our survival. And hence my dear friend, I have explained my purpose. Now, you can speak.
QT : I..I...aaah..I don't know. What is this all about?
SH : You have been chosen to be great and I am here to deliver you with justice.
QT : What?
SH : You will receive a treatment that is fair, trust me.
QT : Whaat..what?
SH : Motherfucker say what again and I swear on your films that I'll grind that knee of yours. I dare you!
QT : What have I done to you?
Bang! A shriek bombed into the silence of the hour.
QT : Oh my God! My knee. My knee. Oh my God!
SH : Now do you understand why I'm here? You've even forgotten your own lessons! You taught the world to break free and you today are hung up on showing westerns! You were a visionary. You lived in the future. BUt now you are neither in the past nor in the present. Where the hell are you then? You sure as hell are not in the future! I know because I am! And I have been sent because if you live you will certainly not be in the future.
QT : You psychopath! Just take me to the hospital.
SH : Oh you are funny Quentin! Of course you are. This is your forte. Fun in violence, right? Your signature. That reminds me of two more signatures to be done on you.
Sherlock takes out a knife.
SH : Let's pay you a tribute, Quentin.
Amidst shrieks, the knife carves out an ear.
Twenty minutes later...
Blurred images slowly start to clear up. Quentin opens his eyes, his head dangling on the opposite side of the slashed ear. A hand oscillates in front of his eyes; a ear, his ear held by two fingers.
Quentin slowly looks at his captor. A smiling face, the satisfaction of enjoyment. He knows this expression. It is the same as the one he gets from people at every climax of his.
SH : I'm sorry I cannot kill you Pulpy style. I mean that would be best, won't it? I think I would just blow your face off. That I'm sure would be worth a hell lot of Pesos!
QT : You're a fool. I'm not against Mexicans!
SH : Excelente Amigo! Now we're talking! Ain't this a fitting Tarantino climax?
So now you know who I am, right? Tell me who I am.
QT : I don't know.
SH : Don't you go back now. You just solved the damn puzzle. Tell me who I am!
QT : You're a Mexican that's all I know!
Another gunshot. Another shriek.
SH : I AM AMERICAN. I HAVE A NAME AS WELL.
A fading Tarantino still looks at his nemesis.
SH : What was your movie all about Quentin? Racism they say! Unification some others say. Unification of democrats and republicans. Unification of white and black. But unification at what cost? Your answer is Mexicans!
You are smart. You really know what's coming. So what do you want? Well, again since you might want many things, I'll just give you two choices. You get to pick your ending style from any of your movies or you get to apologize for your Eighth movie and leave in peace.
QT : Cocaine.
SH : Oh! No apology. You choose cocaine? But cocaine didn't kill Mia!
QT : Please. Only wish.
SH : You remember writing your dingus monologue, don't you?
QT : You Mexican scum!
Tarantino spits.
SH : Well, Quentin, as promised I will give you a fitting sayonara! (laughs) Don't worry it's not going to be five-point-palm-exploding-heart technique. It's going to be as shameful as your last climax. I am not Sherlock Holmes. My name is Sebastian and for you, I am Sebastian, the Hangman!
*********************************************************************************
Christmas Day :
New York Times
Brutal Homicide shocks Hollywood : Quentin Tarantino slashed, shot and hanged on Christmas Eve!
The Sun
Quentin Tarantino : An artist's worst nightmare!
The Times of India
Karma bites the greatest director of the generation!
Anandabazar Patrika
"Keu kicchu koreni! Sob amrai korechi" : Mukhyomanti
p.s. Any view expressed here is solely for entertainment purpose and this post in no way discourages you from watching the Eighth movie by QT. In fact it should also be added (just to ensure that the feds don't arrive at my doorsteps for harmless humour) that any resemblance to any character, mentioned here is purely by coincidence. I hope the response to this article isn't hateful at all. All we need is peace and yes, of course, love.
A few bells could still be heard at this hour of the night. It was cold, just like every December has been. The fireplace by the reading table provided a piercing solace in the darkness. He sat by it, pipe in his mouth, an old letter in his hand. It was a letter from one of the most acclaimed film-makers of his generation, praising him for changing cinema once and for all.
Letters, he thought. How manipulative they can be.
The present age has deprived humanity of this imagery. But he did not belong to this age. In his mind he was a man of past, sent to the future to correct it. In reality, he was an aging man, with the first few steps over the line of his prime.
He put the letter down on the table; removed his pipe and stared at the ceiling.
"Hello Mr. Tarantino!"
Quentin sat up with a start. Any voice inside his house was an impossibility tonight. What he saw in front of him nearly choked him.
Standing ahead was a deerstalker wearing, face covering, overcoat dangling figure with a smoking pipe. Shocked as he was by the presence of this intruder, Quentin reserved his poise and en-quired, "Who's this?"
"An immortal", came the reply. "And I've come to kill you."
Quentin rose halfway from his chair, "What the fuck!"
A gun came out swiftly into the hands of the figure from within the overcoat.
"Why don't you just calm down and relax, Mr. Tarantino. You and me have got a hell lot to talk about tonight."
The figure took a step closer, freezing the director on his chair. The gun came down on the letter. "You've got a nice place in here, sir. " The hat was removed, revealing a thick growth of hair. Then the face was introduced; bright eyes,a size 3 stubble, a long nose, smiling lips.
QT: "What's the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you?"
"I have disdain for people's stupidity or what they like to call lack of intelligence. But I take you for one of my kind. I will still let you answer who I am"
QT: Some crazy guy breaking into my apartment with a gun.
"Oh! Most of your deduction seems to be good except for me being crazy. But again, opinions like any other human tendencies have a right to exist. So, without further ado, let me introduce myself. I'm Sherlock Holmes."
QT: See if you've got to take anything just go ahead. No bullets, no talking. Just do your job and leave.
SH : I understand you doubting my ingenuity. I haven't been convincing enough, if not at all. But you must have heard me when I said that I'm here to kill you, right?
QT: Hey hey. I don't even know you. Is there anything I can do for you? You have a grudge against me or something?
SH : On the contrary my dear Quentin. I have nothing but respect for you and that is exactly what brings me here.
Quentin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Sherlock brings his palm on the table.
SH : Ah! A letter from Steven Spielberg! He praised you for Pulp it seems. Why wouldn't he ? We all did. You are so good Quentin; you are nearly as good as me.
Do you know what it means to be as good as me?
Pause.
SH : Immortality.
Sherlock picks up the gun and points it at Quentin's face.
QT : Hey please put it down. We are talking, ain't us?
SH : You do not talk too much tonight. You got it?
QT : Yes.
SH : Say "I got it".
QT : I got it.
SH : See, Quentin you have served your purpose on earth. You have always been Great. And you must know the curse of greatness, don't you? You are not allowed to be good anymore once you're great. But your last or as you prefer calling it, your Eighth, was far from being great. As a matter of fact Quentin, I have to ensure that you do not take a step more that deprives you of greatness. You see, this world we live in has seized to understand greatness. You are the sole flag bearer at present. It is imperative that you revel in your glory. For in all the ages, the ghost greats live on in the present ones. Killing you will ensure our survival. And hence my dear friend, I have explained my purpose. Now, you can speak.
QT : I..I...aaah..I don't know. What is this all about?
SH : You have been chosen to be great and I am here to deliver you with justice.
QT : What?
SH : You will receive a treatment that is fair, trust me.
QT : Whaat..what?
SH : Motherfucker say what again and I swear on your films that I'll grind that knee of yours. I dare you!
QT : What have I done to you?
Bang! A shriek bombed into the silence of the hour.
QT : Oh my God! My knee. My knee. Oh my God!
SH : Now do you understand why I'm here? You've even forgotten your own lessons! You taught the world to break free and you today are hung up on showing westerns! You were a visionary. You lived in the future. BUt now you are neither in the past nor in the present. Where the hell are you then? You sure as hell are not in the future! I know because I am! And I have been sent because if you live you will certainly not be in the future.
QT : You psychopath! Just take me to the hospital.
SH : Oh you are funny Quentin! Of course you are. This is your forte. Fun in violence, right? Your signature. That reminds me of two more signatures to be done on you.
Sherlock takes out a knife.
SH : Let's pay you a tribute, Quentin.
Amidst shrieks, the knife carves out an ear.
Twenty minutes later...
Blurred images slowly start to clear up. Quentin opens his eyes, his head dangling on the opposite side of the slashed ear. A hand oscillates in front of his eyes; a ear, his ear held by two fingers.
Quentin slowly looks at his captor. A smiling face, the satisfaction of enjoyment. He knows this expression. It is the same as the one he gets from people at every climax of his.
SH : I'm sorry I cannot kill you Pulpy style. I mean that would be best, won't it? I think I would just blow your face off. That I'm sure would be worth a hell lot of Pesos!
QT : You're a fool. I'm not against Mexicans!
SH : Excelente Amigo! Now we're talking! Ain't this a fitting Tarantino climax?
So now you know who I am, right? Tell me who I am.
QT : I don't know.
SH : Don't you go back now. You just solved the damn puzzle. Tell me who I am!
QT : You're a Mexican that's all I know!
Another gunshot. Another shriek.
SH : I AM AMERICAN. I HAVE A NAME AS WELL.
A fading Tarantino still looks at his nemesis.
SH : What was your movie all about Quentin? Racism they say! Unification some others say. Unification of democrats and republicans. Unification of white and black. But unification at what cost? Your answer is Mexicans!
You are smart. You really know what's coming. So what do you want? Well, again since you might want many things, I'll just give you two choices. You get to pick your ending style from any of your movies or you get to apologize for your Eighth movie and leave in peace.
QT : Cocaine.
SH : Oh! No apology. You choose cocaine? But cocaine didn't kill Mia!
QT : Please. Only wish.
SH : You remember writing your dingus monologue, don't you?
QT : You Mexican scum!
Tarantino spits.
SH : Well, Quentin, as promised I will give you a fitting sayonara! (laughs) Don't worry it's not going to be five-point-palm-exploding-heart technique. It's going to be as shameful as your last climax. I am not Sherlock Holmes. My name is Sebastian and for you, I am Sebastian, the Hangman!
*********************************************************************************
Christmas Day :
New York Times
Brutal Homicide shocks Hollywood : Quentin Tarantino slashed, shot and hanged on Christmas Eve!
The Sun
Quentin Tarantino : An artist's worst nightmare!
The Times of India
Karma bites the greatest director of the generation!
Anandabazar Patrika
"Keu kicchu koreni! Sob amrai korechi" : Mukhyomanti
p.s. Any view expressed here is solely for entertainment purpose and this post in no way discourages you from watching the Eighth movie by QT. In fact it should also be added (just to ensure that the feds don't arrive at my doorsteps for harmless humour) that any resemblance to any character, mentioned here is purely by coincidence. I hope the response to this article isn't hateful at all. All we need is peace and yes, of course, love.
