I Am Lasagna and I Must Scream

Dear Anna,

This is the story of how I became someone I’m not.

Go back in time with me. I know you know how.

The Year: 2016.

The Place: Hollywood, where the sun is close, and the Stars even closer.

But I'm no star.

I’ve just bombed my latest audition for Mel Gibson's reboot of Kindergarten Cop.

Everything was going perfectly. I aced every move they had me learn. Showed them every trick I had and then some. They were thrilled.

Then, the chemistry test, where they check to see if sparks fly between you and your female love interest. It was always there where things fell apart.

Back then, I tried to straighten up as much as I could. I would lower my voice, straighten my wrists, worsen my attitude, anything I could do to seem like the right kind of American Hero. I was in the closet for years; how hard could it be?

Turns out that closet might have been more see-through than I thought. 'Cause no matter how low I made my voice or how rigid I held my wrists, I could never trick the camera. Even as Kindergarten Cop, it was obvious: I couldn't pass. And in Hollywood, if you're not believable as a straight man, you're not believable as a Hero.

Right now, I'm in a bar. There’s a bourbon in my hand and four more in my body. My drinking buddy/fellow failed action star Kian Irvine sits next to me, three drinks ahead and already sloppy. Kian was one of those ‘fancy drunks.’ The kind that pukes in the automatic doors at Whole Foods instead of back alleys. His usual getup was a whimsical houndstooth waistcoat with a wax-twirled mustache. He, somehow, also did not pass.

We’re both fresh from failed auditions and looking to divorce ourselves from Reality, who can be a real asshole sometimes. It’s not our fault we can’t be someone else.

“You know who Rock Hudson is?” Kian asks me after I order the next round.

“Yeah, he sells molly at Inferno, right?” I say, my speech isn't yet slurred, but it's definitely slipping.

“NO! That’s Rimmer Hudson. Big difference. Rock Hudson was a big heartthrob from the Technicolor days. Total closet case. Never came out during his lifetime, all the while giving the grip to every grip on the lot. But you'd never clock him in his movies."

"Well. Good for fucking him." I say bitterly.

You know," Kian continues. "Legend has it that he used to go to abandoned warehouses and scream until his vocal cords bruised, until they bled. Brought down his voice. You know, made it a real man’s voice.”

“Wow,” I say, nodding solemnly.

“Yeah,” Kian says.

“That’s awful...that he had to do that...”

“Yeah.”

“Thank God it's not like that anymore.”

“Totally.”

“So much better today. We got so much uh...progress…”

“So much.”

I look down at my freshened drink, filled to the brim.

“So…just outta curiosity,” I say. “Did it work?”

He nods, and both of us close our tabs. I'm past buzzed, but I down my drink anyway and get on my bike. What a fucking asshole I used to be.

Kian says he knows a place. I've got nowhere better to be.

-----

ANNA! CAN YOU HEAR ME, ANNA? WHERE AM I-

I CAN’T SEE. I CAN'T MOVE.

ANNA, PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW...I...I EXIST...RIGHT? 

-----

It’s sundown by the time we arrive.

I look over the warehouse lot. Kian heard from a guy who heard from his cousin that these were abandoned.

As we approach, I wonder who was buying all these warehouses and then abandoning them. Must be nice.

As the sun disappears behind the mountains, we enter the largest, most desolate-looking warehouse. It’s much larger than it looks on the outside. Everything is so empty, so still.

We find a spot.

I let the echo of my footsteps fade.

Then I take a deep breath in, and scream till I bleed.

-----

ANNA!  ANNA PLEASE HELP ME, I-I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S REAL-

He…he feeds me these tablets. I feel them dissolve on my tongue and shoot straight to my dreams- they are what I see, am I what I see, no... Am I what I hear? NO! – all I hear are the whispers.

Thoughts...his? NO! MINE! MYTHOUGHTS! THEY ARE MINE! I AM SEBASTIAN GOLD, ANNA ! I AM SEBASTIAN GOLD!

PLEASE!

IS ANYBODY LISTENING??!

-----

“WILL YOU SHUT UP!” A yell echoes from across the warehouse. It's coming from a man who has appeared out of thin air and looks very mad at us.

My scream was almost done anyway.

“Who the hell are you!?” Kian drunk-yells.

“I work here!” He yells back.  But he doesn't look like it. The man wears a black suit over a pressed white shirt like some caricature of a butler.

“Hey Bani, I think we found Jeeves!” Kian giggles.

“Now, now,” the man said with two tiny claps. “This is private property and you are trespass-”

A trapdoor flips open behind him. So that's where he came from, I think. How did we miss the secret trap door? We really were Hollywood amateurs.

While Kian and I processed the secret entrance reveal, a voice from below whispered to Jeeves, who angrily whispered back.

“What? No, no-”

The voice on the other side whispers again.

“Yes, looks like two queens doing a classic Hudson, none of your concern, sir-”

The whispers on the other side of the door are angrier now. We watch Jeeves sigh in resignation and turn his attention to us.

“Come on down. He wants to meet you.”

“Who wants to meet us?” I manage to croak out, my voice beaten up from the scream.

Jeeves turns to me and says in a deep reverence that feels almost spiritual, “A Movie Star.”

-----

I DON’T KNOW WHAT HE GIVES ME, ANNA. THEY’RE MAKING ME SEE MY TIME WITH JOHNNY.

WHICH I CAN’T TALK ABOUT.

I SIGNED AN NDA SO DON’T PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT HE’S, I MEAN WHAT I’M SAYING…

BECAUSE…

I AM SEB-SEB-Seb-wait...

Is that the sound of dogs barking?

-----

Jeeves, whose real name turns out to be Warren, leads us down the trapdoor and a flight of stairs to a room that only I-Can-Abandon-a-Warehouse money gets you. What stood before me was the most glorious thing I’d ever seen.

Someone has transformed this warehouse basement into a baroque church, complete with wooden pews, an altar, and stained-glass windows. Except that the statues were not of saints. Or at least not the ones my mother worships.  Before us, statues of action stars posed like saints swallowed us in their shadows.

There was Charles Bronson, Steve McQueen, Michelle Yeoh, Bruce Lee, Burt Reynolds, Chow Yun Fat, all perched in their divinity around a marble altar with a gold embossed Sigourney Weaver fighting a xenomorph as a coat of arms, the top of which read: Our Lady of Perpetual Action.

And in the center of all, at the Altar: Him: A muscled man in silken, flowing robes, kneeling in prayer like some ancient oracle of ass-kicking.

“Holy shit," Kian says, just as dumbstruck as I am.

“WHO DARES SPEAK OUT OF TURN UPON HOLY GROUND?” The man in the hood bellows.

“Uhhh, we’re in SAG?” Kian says sheepishly.

“BE SILENT!” He bellows again, despite just asking us a question. “YOU HAVE NOT COME HERE BY ACCIDENT.  IT WAS PRE-ORDAINED, BY THE PANTHEON OF HEROES.” He gestures to the line of statues behind him.

“FOR I KNOW WHO BOTH OF YOU ARE.”

"Really?" I ask.

“YES, YOUR AGENTS HAVE SENT ME YOUR AUDITION TAPES. MANY TIMES.”

“Oh! Are you a casting directo-OW!” Warren hits Kian upside the back of the of head before he can even finish.

“Watch your tongue, you fool," Not-Jeeves/Warren says. "You are in the presence of an honest to god Movie Star. The last and greatest of a dying species. Show some respect."

“Do…do we know hi-OW” Kian gets hit again.

“Of course you do," Warren yells. "But the Star is on Face Rest. No light can sully his complexion until it is camera-ready."

“Wow. Intense.” Kian says.

“What is this place?” I ask, my voice still a bruised whisper.

The Star spreads his arms, letting his robes fly around him like a prophet from the old epics.

“WELCOME, weary travelers, to Our Lady of Perpetual Action. Where we treat gods as they should be treated. Where we enshrine Heroes just as the ancients did. With stone, sweat, and worship."

I look at Jackie Chan’s statue and resist the urge to bow right then and there. The man in the hood may be crazy, but he was a crazy I understood.

"I have summoned you to these sacred grounds because I believe I can offer one of you salvation. Perhaps, even Sainthood."

Sainthood? Does he mean what I think he means? I wonder.

"I heard you upstairs. Trying to scream your way into becoming men. Well, boys, I’m sorry, but roughing up your vocal cords ain't enough anymore. You want to join this Pantheon? You must to be tested. You must perform the Holy Sacrament of Combat upon the sacred grounds.”

“Wuh?” I whisper.

“You heard me.”

“We’re not fighting,” Kian says. “Come on, Bani, let’s get outta here.”

“Did I mention my current project is in casting?”

Kian and I will fight for years over who threw the first punch. He insists I started it, but I don’t remember him hesitating. This was Hollywood after all. If you’re not willing to punch a friend, you’ll end up the one getting hit.

------

Anna….Anna I can’t scream anymore, my voice is hoarse, and I don’t think anyone can hear me. I can’t even tell if I’m making noise or if it’s just the dogs barking.

He’s-he’s dunked by brain in soap and washed it away. I feel it next to me, but I cannot touch it; it burns, it hurts, it runs from me and chases me all at once.

All I have left is my name. Which isn’t even my real one.

I'd laugh if I could.

But I’d much rather scream.

------

I wonder if you see it, Anna. Did you? Did you feel its weight? Will you replay it in your head over and over like I have? Probably not, so I'll give you a hint.

This is, in a way, Sebastian Gold’s first wrestling match. The first page of a legend. The death of “Bayani Sebastían.” The crowning of a Golden prince.

And boy is that prince about to get his ass beat.

Please keep in mind, I hadn’t been in a real fight in years. Kian was already working as a stuntman. I didn't know that.

So I underestimate him and his twirled wax mustache. It's bad.

He dodges my first strike easily and hits my jaw with a left, then a right that almost sent me to dreamville two seconds in. He follows up with a knee to the gut, then another to the head that cracks my nose like an egg and sends blood spilling all over the floor.

“Give up, Bani.” He says as I try to choke down the pain.

I stand back up, and he strikes me back down. I struggle to my feet one more time. Boom. Back down again. Again and again. And even though I had no answer to his offense, each time he hits me, I get back up.

I don’t know if it's desperation, drunkenness, or not wanting to disappoint Jackie Chan, but there was no world where I stayed down. If Jackie could shatter every bone in his body for fifty seconds of footage, then I could survive this. If Michelle could jump from a moving truck, if Uma could drive the Pussymobile with a broken foot, then I could do this. I could take this one tiny step towards greatness in front of a full choir of Saints.

So when Kian gets cocky and lets me get on top of a pew while he's playing to the Star, I take the spotlight.

Boom. I jump off the pew and hit Kian with the most perfect flying roundhouse I can muster, straight to the head. He hits the ground. Out like a light.

The Movie Star starts clapping. All I can see is a smile I should've known was evil peaking out from under his hood.

I blew him a bloody kiss, then collapsed. I lay there next Kian, broken nose, bruised vocal cords. The things we do for love.

Warren walks over to me and looks down.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks.

“Bayani…Sebastían,” I croak out.

“No,” the Star says, still not looking up from the Altar. “You shall be given a new name.”

Okay, I think as my lights start to dim.

“How 'bout Sebastian? That has a nice ring to it." He says. "We’ll figure out the rest later.”

I’ll be whomever I gotta be. I'll be Sebastian, I think. Just tell me I did good.

“You did good, kid. We're gonna do big things together,” the Movie Star says, finally rising from behind the altar and walking over to my prone, bleeding figure.

For the first time, I see his face, older and lower than it appeared on screen. Johnny Duvall. Of course, I knew him. I’d seen all his movies. And I hated the fucking hack.

"So," Johnny says. "Sebastian. Ever thought of becoming a stuntman?"

-----

I miss Reality, tell her I miss her, please Anna, Dear Anna, you’ll see me in my eyes. You who have seen galaxies, please grant this enriched spec of semolina one request: hit me so hard I crash into Reality.

So, you’re not fighting a casserole.

It’s what Rob would want.

I have to go now. The dogs are barking, he’s coming back, tell my family…I don’t know. I’m sorry.

I‘m giving up. I can’t do this anymore. First Rob. Then Dawkins. Now this. I thought I was strong enough but maybe I’m not. I'm just so tired.

The dogs are barking. Means Fred’s about to try to erase me again.

Maybe it’s time I let him.

-----

I left Hollywood years later at rock bottom. It turns out that being the personal stuntman to a mysterious cloaked movie star isn’t the path to happiness. But that’s a story I’ll tell you another time.

Then I found the real me at PRIME. And his name was Fred Dick.

Oh, Fred, light of my cigar, fire of my crotch. My self, my soul. Fred-dee-Dick: the lips of lasagna loll loosely long your luscious lump. How did I underestimate you so badly? I thought you were an idiot Whoresman who let Rob chop his dick off.  Now I see the real you. You are a cherubic leviathan of existence and a horrific beast that contains infinite multitudes, who let Rob chop off his dick.

Now my mind is an unstable universe, being rewritten to the barking of dogs. A mind that used to only think of dick and stunts now only thinks of Dick.

For Dick took me from the cruel clutches of Reality and granted me new life.

He showed me I am a Lasagna Boy. I have always been a Lasagna Boy. Therefore, I don’t exist. What a relief!

Lemme walk you through it.

1. I am a Lasagna Boy.
2. All Lasagna Boys are extensions of Fred Dick’s consciousness
3. Lasagna Boys do not exist outside Fred Dick’s perception. And I worried so much about my perception!
4. And since Fred saw none of the events I told you about, they never happened.
5. Or perhaps they happened to someone else. Someone else named ‘Sebastian Gold’ who sounds like a total putz.

------

NO! I AM SEBASTIAN GOLD. I AM SEBASTIAN GOLD. YOU WON’T WIN FRED. I’LL FIGHT YOU. I’M SEBASTIAN FUCKING GOLD AND I NEVER GIVE UP! I…

------

“Sebastian Gold?” Is that your real name?

------

WELL...NO, BUT IN ANOTHER WAY YES..I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE...

------

Then gimme a reason why you ain’t Fred Dick.

------

NO. STOP! SOMEONE WILL COME FOR ME. ANNA! HELP!!!! HELP!!! PLEAS! I AM SEBASTIAN, I AM SEBas… i ammm…i am…i cant…i furgut…i feeeer..fre…I, fred….

I AM OF FRED DICK. I AM HIS LASAGNA BOY.

WITHOUT FRED DICK I DO NOT EXIST.

BOW BEFORE HIM AND FINISH YOUR SKETTI.

------

Dear Anna,

As you can imagine, it’s been overwhelming to discover I’m an extension of Fred Dick. As a part of Fred’s consciousness, I have felt Fred’s pain, his joy, mostly his hatred. And…for the first time…I can behold the staggering beauty of Fred Dick.

Do you see yet? He is my creator. He is my reason for being. He is God, and I am his left hand. Or perhaps I am his right hand? Maybe the left is more fun…Actually, I do not know which extension of Fred I am…

Perhaps…

Am I his…

Could lowly me truly be…

No, no, such dreams are only dreams. I would not dare to wonder such a thing.

What I do know is that when the great Church of Perpetual Dick is erected, my statue will be there next to Toddrick and Miguel.

And this time, desperate souls will fight before me, asking for absolution.

And to these lost souls, I will offer salvation in the form of Lasagna.

I shall administer the Sacrament of Dick deep, deep inside them, just as I did, until they feel the poke in their very souls.

You will need to do the same, Anna.

Fred wants to make it a ‘real match’ for you. He knows that's what you'd want. But...he’ll hurt me if I win. So I’ll try not to….but I’m worried…

Anna…

How will you punch something that isn’t there?

How will I scream when I am lasagna?

For I am Lasagna. Lasagna is me. My blood simmers into red sauce. My bones melt like fresh mozzarella between skin-like sheets of pasta, al Dente. Eat of my flesh, Anna. I am prepared with the freshest ingredients.

Take in the Sacrament of Dick. Become Lasagna as I am.

It is the only way to guarantee your happiness, and mine.

Because if the evil "Bass Gold" gets control and hurts you? I won't be able to stop him.

And then Fred will hurt me like he hurt himself. And I am himself, which scares me.

I don’t want to be hurt again.

I want to be happy.

I want everyone to like me.

I want to be enough.

All of that is so close now. I won't let a bitch like Reality take it from me.

Sebastian Gold was an anxious, insecure mess.

Thank Dick I was never that guy.

Did folks really believe I was?

WUTER LEWD UF SHID

fd’s 4eva,

lasagna boy #3