Photo taken just before he bludgeons one of his henchmen with a hog hoof. |
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Picture this: Action/Adventure type movie hero...think Bruce Willis or Spiderpig or Viggo or the Bourne Whatever or Jar Jar or whoever is the James Bond of the month. Got it? Okay, now suppose the evil madman genius with plans to destroy the world has captured this hero and placed him/her/it in some megalomaniacal device of peril that spells certain doom for the protagonist. Doctor Insertnamehere then orders one of his hired goons to be in charge of making sure that the "good guy" actually dies this fantastic death as planned, but something goes horribly wrong/right. By a stroke of Powerball Lottery luck our savior beats death by mere seconds and escapes to foil the terrible plot and save Earth once more.
Don't lie, now. You know you've seen this. It's usually like the end of Act II or perhaps the beginning of Act III...? Often it's sandwiched between the kidnap and rescue of Beyoncekatejessicakirsten Knowleswinsletalbadunst? Have it? I'm sure you do. So after the big getaway, the head honcho bad guy shows up with the assumption that the deed has been done and the dude is dawn-of-the-dead as a doornail. But he's not! He's gone. The only person in the room is the bumbling henchman, the overstuffed donut of a man who's too busy calling in his pick for the ninth race at Santa Anita to realize his folly.
His terrified apologies to the boss go unrequited, and instead of a "Better luck next time" speech, he is the recipient of a three-bullet sundae. He drops dead with a quirky smirk, the audience chortles something to the tune of, "That crazy crime boss/scientist/disgruntled billionaire/minion of Satan" and we go along our merry way to the happy ending of the film with kisses, kills, and commendations.
But we've forgotten something, and it pisses me off! I've been holding it in for years, but just this moment, after drinking the microwaved broth of my Cup O' Noodles, I realized that I needed to speak up for the henchmen, the poor hapless saps who die mercilessly at the hands of their masters, tossed aside like the flyer your co-worker gave you for his crappy neo-punk band gig. Personally I've had enough of this wasteful nonsense, and it is therefore my responsibility to play around with the idea of what I think would be the cinematic aftermath of goonicide. Someone has to put a period at the end of their sentences, or at the very least a semicolon. So here's some cutting room floor highlights for you, a couple of deleted scenes that at least I'd like to see...
Deleted Scene #1
Location: Gotham City
Date: 1989 or the Future..you decide
This is excerpted from a meeting between Jack Napier (aka the Joker) and Garland Pipp, a representative from the Gotham chapter of the Thugalier's Union shortly after Mr. Napier's Smilex gas plot is foiled by some bat-like caped crusader.
GP: So you willfully admit that you shot Bob?
JN: Well I didn't make him potato salad, if that's what you're getting at.
GP: And you realize that your actions are in direct violation to the Thug Decency Act of 1987?
JN: Well, I guess you got me 
He's your boss and you DON'T expect to be killed? Shame on you! |
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there, Pipp. Forgive me if I don't look so sad about it. My smile never seems to want to go away.
GP: Mr. Napier your tone suggests that you have little to no remorse regarding your cold and callous treatment of your muscle staff. Might I remind you that this is the fifth such goon shooting you've perpetrated since the start of the fiscal year.
JN: Well, La-de-frickin'-DA! How do you expect me to fulfill the role of villain if I don't shoot a guy every now and again?
GP: We at the Thugalier's Union are not asking that you cease to commit murder, Mr. Napier. We only ask that you limit it to government officials, supernatural crime fighters, and innocent victims. Now you have reached your quota with us, sir, and the penalty will follow the standard financial requirements.
JN: So it's money you're after, Pipp?
GP: Naturally.
JN: Then allow me to tell you a story: A little yarn about the cost of ammunition. You know how much I spend on bullets, Pipp?
GP: A fair amount, I imagine.
JN: Well we get 'em wholesale. Works out to be about 69 cents apiece, the cost of your average donut. Not your jelly filled or Boston Creme, mind you. Just your run of the mill chocolate glazed. Now let me ask you, Pipp...Do you like donuts?
GP: Of course. I suppose I do.
JN: Good. Then, here, have a couple 'a crullers!
BLAM! BLAM! Napier fires two gunshots into Mr. Pipp's midsection.
JN: How those taste, Pippy? Have a sprinkled! (BLAM!) And a powdered! (BLAM!) And a couple maple bars! (BLAM! BLAM!) Make it a whole bakers dozen!
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
END SCENE
Tell me that you don't see that scene plain as day. It's just not fair, not fair I say, to see a lovable goon offed with such apathetic disdain.
Here's another scenario:
Deleted scene #2
Location: Tatooine
Date: A long time ago...
The following conversation takes place between Oo-Lak Perkins, Lifeform Resources Manager at Jabba the Hutt Enterprises, and Doopie Hukk-Hukk, the wife of a Gamorrean guard at Jabba's palace.
Hukk-Hukk: This is Doopie Hukk-Hukk, wife of Maltar Hukk-Hukk and daughter of Zeldrac the Bowel Scraper, for what purpose have I received this communication?
Perkins: Yes, Mrs. Hukk-Hukk, this is Oo-Lak Perkins, Lifeform Resources Manager at Jabba Enterprises...?
Hukk-Hukk: Proceed to form words...
Perkins: Yes, well, Mrs. Hukk-Hukk, I'm calling with a bit of bad news concerning your husband...
HH: Him have accident? Leak bodily fluids on toga again?
P: No, nothing like that, I assure you. Actually, he was in Mr. Hutt's reception chamber this afternoon during a Rancor sacrifice...
HH: Oh! Him love Rancor sacrifice!
P: Yes, we all do. Well, as I was saying, Mr. Hutt had deposited a young Jedi warrior into the Rancor pit as is standard procedure with all hostile visitors... Unfortunately, your husband Maltar was a bit too close to the trap door, and by his 
Once a star of his high school Chess club, Maltar later fell in with gangs |
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own negligence slipped into the pit as well.
HH: That terrible! He suffer injury to flesh and bone?
P: Well, it's hard to say. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but the Rancor actually ate Mr. Hukk-Hukk.
HH: Maltar...him cease to breathe in this mortal realm?
P: I'm afraid so. And although the dangers of your former husband's job description are clearly stated in his contract, believe me all of us at Corporate are broken up over it. Mr. Hutt would like to personally send his condolences, along with a two-week severance package and some frozen Jawa meat. Are you still at the same address? 1,000,987,323,900 Womprat Court?
HH: It Womprat Lane.
P: Oh, galaga grease! Our mistake. Lane it is then. We'll have that sent right over to you.
HH: Me gratitude is boundless. But me have few questions...
P: Of course, Mrs. Hukk-Hukk.
HH: Did him die honorably?
P: Well, to tell you the truth, he squealed like Sandperson in labor. He clawed at the walls to try to escape, but once the Rancor is released, there's nothing we can do. Mr. Hutt and his audience actually enjoyed your husband's death immensely. I heard his bellowing laughter clear into my office on the third floor.
HH: Him put shame on family like five exploding Death Stars!
P: No, Mrs. Hukk-Hukk, please don't take it the wrong way. We all hold your late husband in the highest regard. There's already talk of his accident making the blooper reel at the next Night of the Gothnark Celebration here at HQ.
HH: Oh! Me invited?
P: Oh...sorry, no. Only living employees and spouses may attend.
HH: You send tape?
P: Hmm. Gosh, I'd need to speak to the brass about that.
END SCENE
The severance pay and food gift only lasts a week or so, and Mrs. Hukk-Hukk was forced to earn a meager living cleaning Bantha cages. Their twin daughters had to drop out of the Tatooine Ballet Academy. Shame.
This kind of thug abuse is happening every day in Hollywood. Their stories are never told, their names are never remembered, and their families are rarely compensated for their loss. I have shared only two of the many tales of hired subordinate strong-arms who have fallen at the hands of the ones who sign their checks. Think of all the Bond villains alone! That's dozens of of mindless killings right there!
What would these criminal minds do without their goons? Nothing, that's what. So where is the respect? In the gutter, that's where. When are we going to do something about it? Now, that's when. Who is going to stand behind them? Me and you, that's who. Why should we do it? It's just the right thing to do, that's why. How can we make a difference? Send me money, that's how.
For just ten dollars a month, that's just pennies a day, the Hugs For Henchmen Foundation can help educate hired goons of their rights as minions of criminal overlords. Don't delay. Send money now. Reply to the Digg below for further information on how to help eradicate this mindless killing trend.
Thank you.
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Every other Tuesday
I'm pissed off because you're NOT pissed off. That pisses me off. What else pisses me off? Piss off! Or read this...
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| Jay Ashkinos |
I am an undousable spark; I swear at people in Olde English; I am a phone number on the bathroom wall; I'm shorter than you, but I can kick your ass; I cry at beauty as fervently as I do with sorrow; I have a piece of paper that says I'm smart, yet I lock my keys in my car twice a year. Go figure.
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