This is the title of my work in progress. I would like to precede my explanation by trying to give you a little idea of what I am going for with this project.
I do not envision myself making fictional pictures. I see myself making powerful faux-documentaries of the world we would live in if we did not have to abide by the cruel and unfair, coldly limiting mores of modern society. These aren't so much "stories" as they are ethereal would-be truths about a perfect world, based on my dauntingly researched psychological odysseys with my chosen subjects. I show you neither story nor truth, but what the truth could be if we were all delimited. Due to the close, nearly incestuous relationship between truth and artifice in my works, it is of the utmost importance that those that inspired the participants of my documentaries take the role of the character that they "inspired." I ask that my participants do not fear doing things that they may not be party to in this reality; just think, for a few minutes or moments, that you are living in a perfect, delimited world.
The Father Robby and Thomas FabIo Mysteries
Note: I have made a concession to one of the involved parties to NOT use his exact name in the title. Maybe, just maybe, the name I have instead chosen is the name he would have in the perfect world, a Platonic form, as it were.
Note 2: As something of a tribute to the silent Fritz Lang movies I have been watching (and possibly the dialogue light Kubricks), I have decided to illuminate the mysteries between Father Robby and Thomas without using any dialogue. I believe that my heartening vision gets so close to touching the true face of the truth that any vocal explication is simply excessive. Nobody appreciates the truth when it is simply told to them; no, it must be experienced to be understood. And I am giving you that experience. The words can come later.
Note 3: This summary is, of course, still in development. A work in progress. Don't doubt me, my friends, I have seen the truth, with my very own eyes, and I continue to see it: in my soup bowl, amongst my lucky charms, in the litter box. The truth is all round me, but believe it, I am no perfect man, and I have yet to perfectly parse it and translate it so you, the proletariat, can perfectly understand it. My vision shall be developed until, like staring in a mirror, the truth stares back at the viewer with no reliance on the brain to translate.
Inside a Truck Stop Motel Room in Ohio
Thomas FabIo is attempting physical relationships with a female. There is an awkwardness in the air, as Thomas cannot assemble the pieces of the fleshy puzzle in a personally comfortable manner. The nudity in this scene is ubiquitous and explicit, full frontal from all parties. As a tribute to the classy golden era pornographies of the 1970s, the girl has abundant pubic hair, in a style I would like to popularize as an "Ohifro."
After several minutes of failing to maintain an erection, Thomas FabIo enters the bathroom. During his walk there, we manage to see more of the room. 70s colors abound, as they often do in ghetto motels and in ohio. There are odious greens and terrible browns, colors whose popularity could logically only be borne amidst a cocaine epidemic. Once in the bathroom, Thomas sits on the toilet. Not to shit, because that would be gross. He just sits down because he needs tos it down. He can not understand or appreciate the trainwreck occurring in the bedroom. It is while Thomas is in the bathroom that Father Robby makes his entrance, in the other room.
The door bursts open, kicked in by Father Robby, a heavyset Spanish priest, wearing a black cassock complete with cord (belt). Thomas, still in the bathroom, hears the crash from the door, and although the bathroom door is closed (he planned on trying to summon up an erection to pleasure the girl with by playing with himself), he turns his head in the general direction of the front door of the motel room. A worried look on his face dictates that although he cannot know for sure, he suspects exactly what has happened in the other room. Still naked, he leaps up from the shitter and opens the foor leading into the main room of the hotel. By now, several moments have passed since Father Robby entered the motel room, giving him time to set to work.
As Thomas enters the motel room from the bathroom, he sees Father Robby maniacally strangling the naked female with the cord from his cassock. Father Robby is kneeling on the bed, where he apparently leapt after parsing the scene, slipping off his belt to punish the sins in the motel room. Father Robby, his knees on the lower back of the naked girl, cord around her kneck, he is forcefully jerking up on the cord, strangling the life out of the girl. His knees are, worry not, placed low enough on the back that as he jerks up, there is adequate swinging titty action. Swinging about like. . .I dunno, dodgeballs. The titties are swinging hog wild as he strangles the woman; swinging, possibly, as titties were never meant to swing.
Thomas never envisioned things getting this bad. By the time he understands what is going on, the girl is already dead. Not that he could have done anything--Father Robby has at least 400 pounds on him. Thomas doesn't know what to expect next, but he does realize that he is powerless in the light of the giant, Spanish, Catholic priest. Thomas falls back, against the wall, terrified, into something of a shocked sitting position. He is still naked.
Father Robby finishes up with the whore and approaches Thomas. The cord on his cassock is gone, left behind around the neck of the now-blue woman. As Father Robby approaches him, Thomas's self-preservation instinct, wounded and useless, kicks in, and he starts gaily flailing his arms at the approaching Spanish man. Now, it is important to have the scene properly set up in your head here. Thomas is on the ground, against a wall, sitting on his butt. Father Robby is walking towards him. He is still standing up. Thomas is flailing his arms, as you would maybe see Kermit the Frog do. Naturally, at the level Thomas is sitting, he is flailing his arms at about the same height that Father Robby's dick would be. So Thomas accidentally strokes Father Robby's dick, sending Father Robby deeper into his righteous anger.
The Parking Lot and the Overpass
After the inadvertant cock stroking, there is an immediate cut to Father Robby, storming out of the motel room, as if he has a purpose, dragging Thomas, still naked, by the neck across the motel parking lot. Thomas is still kicking, and shit. Due to the air constriction occurring from Robby mildly choking him, he has finally achieved an erection. Father Robby, still cordless, is able to drag Thomas with no effort, moving quickly. The asphalt on the ground of the parking lot acts as a fleshy cheese grater, occassionally leaving a bloody streak or a chunk of Thomas behind, forming a, uh, fleshy breadcrumb trail leading to the next universal truth.
Thomas is screaming. As Father Robby and his "luggage" clear the parking lot, truckers and whores in other motel rooms have come out to check the commotion, but none of the meth-fueled white trashers nor their whore-women are willing to approach a beltless, 600 pound Spanish catholic priest bloodily toting what appears to be his wiry, bloody slampiece across the hot August's macadam. At worst, they think they are seeing something of a domestic dispute, common within the Catholic church.
Father Robby and the dragged Thomas quickly walk up a small highway exit ramp, and onto an overpass. You know how highway exits tend to form those figure eight things. It's one of them. Father Robby picks up Thomas, by the neck and pulls him up to eye level. This whole time, the roar of traffic is getting louder and louder. Once Robby has Thomas at eye level, he mouths a sentence, but we can't hear it, because the deep roaring truth of the rural ohian rush hour traffic screams too loudly to let us hear something that personal. And maybe a tear runs down his cheek or some junk. And after that, Father Robby tosses Thomas FabIo over the edge of the overpass, into the fast hot ohian summer rush hour traffic. And you hear squealing breaks, and car doors opening and closing, and people screaming when they see a skinny ass, scabby boy who has exploded like a vodka-filled watermellon upon landing in the middle of traffic.
The people on the road beneath the overpass gather around Thomas's corpse, trying to piece together the reasons a young naked boy with an erection would have for leaping over the edge of an overpass. After a few moments of chaos, like people puking and comforting each other and maybe somebody jumping off the road under the overpass onto another road beneath it (think stacked overpasses), one of the dumbass Ohioites has the good sense to look up to see where Thomas jumped from. It has been like a minute since the corpse hit the road, but the people are that dumb there.
And when they look up to the overpass, they see Father Robby, naked and hairy, hanging by the neck from the overpass, with his cassock tied into a makeshift noose. And then you just hear people fucking puke. And yes, priests are always naked under their cassocks, just like WE'RE ALWAYS NAKED UNDER OUR METAPHORICAL CASSOCKS.
the end
