The Poor Whoresmen Proudly Present: The Godfather Part 4

THE VISION

The screen is black.

For several long seconds, all that can be heard is heavy breathing and the faint crackle of cigarette static somewhere off-mic.

Then…

“...y’rollin?”

A voice from somewhere behind the camera replies, “Yeah.”

Another pause.

“...y’sure?”

“YES, ‘TONA.”

“Alright.”

The picture suddenly appears in violent shaky-cam. A folding chair. Not even a nice one. One of those cheap, white, plastic lawn chairs with dirt on the legs. Duct tape across the backrest reads:

MARLON BRANDO

DIRECTOR

Sitting in it is Daytona Diamonds. Or, at least, what Daytona Diamonds apparently believes Marlon Brando looked like.

His cheeks are swollen with what appears to be either cotton balls or an active allergic reaction. Greasy black shoe polish has been smeared through his hair. A tiny fake mustache hangs halfway off his face. He wears a tuxedo jacket over a sleeveless “ALAN JACKSON FOREVER” t-shirt and breathes with the exhausted gravity of a dying emperor.

Behind him sits the set.

Which is very obviously just the backroom of a struggling Italian restaurant.

A “NO EMPLOYEES BEYOND THIS POINT” sign hangs crooked behind a fake velvet curtain. Somebody has attempted to cover a Mountain Dew syrup box with a towel. Off to the side, Fred Dick can be seen asleep in a booth wearing a bathrobe and a flat cap while clutching a loaf of bread to his chest like a teddy bear. If he had a penis, it would be hanging out from between the robe’s folds.

Daytona stares into the camera with immense seriousness.

“Y’know, the problem with Hollywood today…”

He pauses to suck air loudly through his nose.

“...is cowardice.”

Somewhere behind the camera, Rob Williams snorts. Daytona immediately points without looking.

“Cut his mic.”

“You don’t gotta keep saying that, man. There ain’t fucking mics.”

“CUT. HIS. GODDANG. MIC.”

Robrico Fettucine. Still visibly just Rob Williams, but wearing a pinstripe suit jacket over jorts. He leans halfway into frame holding a tray of microwaved mozzarella sticks.

“I’m just saying, if we’re gonna be auteurs, we should probably have equipment.”

Daytona closes his eyes slowly. The way a man does moments before delivering profound wisdom or committing felony assault.

“This…”

He gestures broadly around the shitty little room.

“This is independent cinema.

He nods to himself.

“This is how they made The Godfather.”

The camera pans to find Anna Daniels sitting in the booth opposite Fred. She’s wearing a giant, blowout wig and has a fake beauty mark smeared just below her nose. She’s never looked more beautiful.

“No it isn’t,” she says.

Daytona ignores her completely, fully lost in the fantasy.

“Wrasslin’ don’t last forever. One day, the knees go. One day, the lights stop flashin’. One day, some twelve year old on the Internet says your punches look fake…” He swallows hard before pointing at himself. “But THIS? Stories? Film? Legacy?!”

He presses a hand dramatically against his swollen fake jowls.

“This is immortality.”

A long silence hangs over the room. Daytona slowly stands to meet the gravity of the moment, one hand still pressed dramatically to his fake jowls.

“This…” he says softly. “...this is my magnum opus.”

THE POOR WHORESMEN PROUDLY PRESENT

THE GODFATHER 4

Directed by Daytona Diamonds

Produced by Rob Williams

Starring: Daytona Diamonds as Marlon Brando

Rob Williams as Robrico Fettucine

Rob Williams as Some Weak Italian Guy

Anna Daniels as Angry Italian Woman

Fred Dick as Papa Gnocchi

Fred Dick as Sexy Italian Woman

Anna Daniels as Papa Gnocchi 2

SCENE 1

Tight cut on Rob Williams’ face. He looks extremely sad. Is it because he’s playing an Italian man?

“Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a wrestler.”

The “CUT” would wake Marlon Brando.

“Goddangit, Robbie! That’s the wrong movie! …wait, did you even read my fuckin’ script?!”

Rob searches the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a Hustler magazine with various words circled.

“You mean the fucking Da Vinci Coke scribbles you sent me? No, ‘Tone, I fucking didn’t.”

Eyes glued shut and teeth clenched, Daytona takes a deep breath in through his nose. He moves his hands up and down as if pushing it further down into his lungs.

Fred jumps into action and starts rubbing Daytona’s shoulders.

“Robbie, we’re tryna create somethin’ here! Somethin’ special!”

“Yeah, I fucking know. I paid forty-seven thousand dollars for this.”

Both Daytona and Fred nearly break their necks whipping their heads to stare at Rob in shock and horror. In unison they cry out, “Forty-seven thousand dollars?!”

“Yeah. I own the rights to The Godfather… Four. Paramount said it was some type of clerical error, but that Dr. Zeke cat tells me it’s all legit.”

One of the Lasagna Boys brings Daytona the contract. He skims it, pretending to understand all the legalese. His eyes grow wide.

“The fuckin’ Godfather,” Daytona remarks as a man whose dream was just made real.

“Four.” Rob mentions while lighting a cigarette.

“Alright. Fuck it, take it from the top.”

SCENE 1 (FROM THE TOP)

Tight, wobbling cut on Rob’s face. Something falls off set.

“As long as I can remember, I wanted to be a wrestler. I love-ah PRIME. PRIME gave me the 5 Star Title, the Tag Titles, and The Whoresmen. Recently, PRIME took our Tag Titles. Then they booked me against my friend, Marlon Brando. And now? Now they’ve booked me against some shitbag named Johnny Dorn and… uh.. some other Italian guy.”

Rob feigns a tear.

The camera zooms out to show the back of Papa Gnocchi's head.

Rob continues, “I went to the bosses. I complained on the Jabber. Then I said to Anna, for justice, we must go to Papa Gnocchi."

A sudden shift to the side reveals Anna Dan--er, Angry Italian Woman getting an impromptu mani-pedi while sitting in Marlon Brando's seat. She speaks in what could only be described as a mutated Snooki-ass accent if it was amplified to eleven. But given the jingling of all hundred pounds of jewelry she's sporting, perhaps it's just par for the course.

“For the record, I thought it was stupid. What did Papa Gnocchi know about how to be a wrestler? Did he single-handedly buttfuck Bruno Sammartino in the basement of the Gahden? I don't think so. But I have never been one to shy from a dumb adventure, so I went. And it was very interesting.“

Papa Gnocchi slowly turns in his seat. Or, more accurately, Fred Dick slowly rotates a foldout chair with his feet while maintaining direct eye contact with the camera. A cigarette dangles from his lips backwards.

“Robrico Fettucine…” Papa Gnocchi says gravely. “You-ah come-ah to-ah- me-ah on-ah the-ah day-ah of-ah my-ah granddaughter’s-ah spaghetti-ah…”

He pauses to let the gravity of the moment sink in.

“...to-ah ask-ah -about-ah wrestling-ah.”

The camera pans out to reveal he’s wearing the same dirty robe from before. The folds of the robe are spread just so, revealing the shadow of a veritable anaconda underneath. It’s like that one scene from Basic Instinct, but instead of Sharon Stone’s cooter, it’s Fred Dick’s dick. Except, y’know, Fred Dick doesn’t have a dick.

Right?

Rob looks confused. “...wait, why’s your granddaughter having spaghetti again?”

From somewhere behind the camera, Daytona shouts. “BECAUSE SHE’S ITALIAN, ROBBIE! GODDANGIT! STICK TO THE GODDANG SCRIPT!”

Papa Gnocchi leans forward. “Ya’ll-ah want-ah justice-ah against-ah Johnny-ah Dorn-ah and-ah… whoevertheotheroneis-ah?”

Rob nods solemnly.

“We do.”

Fred narrows his eyes.

“Then-ah… uh… shid, I forgot my fuggin lines, y’all.”

Rob stares at him for a long moment… then sighs.

“Jesus Christ.”

Daytona throws both hands into the air from behind the camera. “CUT! CUT! FREDDY, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT SCENE IN THE GODDANG MOVIE AND YOU’RE FUCKIN’ IT TO PIECES!”

The camera suddenly tumbles violently to the floor, the scene going sideways. Daytona’s boots are seen stepping in front of the camera as the others look at him. Daytona bends down into frame, breathing heavily through his nose. The fake Brando jowls wobble with rage.

And then…

Very calmly.

Very seriously.

“Fred, you’re off the picture.”

Fred blinks. “...what?”

“Y’heard me!” Daytona shakes his head. “Anna’s Papa Gnocchi now.”

Anna slowly lowers her sunglasses. “...excuse us?”

“Y’got range, Annie! Gravitas! Presence!” Daytona gestures angrily towards Fred. “Everything he ain’t got.”

“I got TONS of gravity!” Fred shouts.

“YOU SOUND LIKE MARIO, FREDDY!” Daytona shouts back.

“But what about my CGI dick?!” Fred asks.

“What the hell’re you talkin’ ‘bout?!”

“Robby told me he was gonna give me a CGI dick in post! A big’un!”

“Yeah,” Rob says. “I figured it was the least I could do.”

“Wait,” Anna says. “Do we have to have a CGI dick for this or…?”

“Naw!” Daytona shouts. “There ain’t gonna be no CGI dicks in my goddang movie! This ain’t a fuckin’ porno, boys!”

“I dunno,” Robby says. “The dick’s part of the character now. I think Anna needs it if she’s gonna play Papa Gnocchi.”

“But… that was MY dick…” Freddy mutters.

“Freddy, you ain’t even got a real dick no more,” Rob says.

“EMOTONALLY I DO!”

Daytona pinches his nose between his fingers, fighting back the urge to start throwing punches. “Anna, you’re Papa Gnocchi now. Freddy, you’re the Angry Italian Woman now. And there ain’t gonna be no goddang CGI nothin’! That ain’t art! That ain’t real! Fuck! FUCK!”

As Daytona stalks off in a fit of anger, Fred’s shoulders slump in defeat. He lets out a big, dramatic sigh, sniffling and wiping away a few stray tears from his eyes. Rob reaches out and pats Fred on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he says. “You’re gonna make a great Angry Italian Woman.”

“Yeah,” Anna adds. “For what it’s worth, We think you got incredible birthing hips.”

Fred sniffles.

“Thanks, guys. That means a lot.”

SCENE 2

Black screen. Heavy breathing. Not normal breathing. Labored. Wet. Like an asthmatic walrus climbing stairs. And then… Daytona Diamonds dressed as Marlon Brando. Extreme close-up. Too close. His fake jowls have somehow doubled in size. His hair is now slicked completely flat against his skull with what appears to be motor oil. He stares silently into the camera for an uncomfortable amount of time. Fake accordion music plays.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody moves.

Finally, from behind the camera:

“...you okay, ‘Tone?”

Daytona slowly raises one finger.

“Shh. Don’t interrupt the process.”

The fake accordion swells. Daytona stares directly into the lens with the dead-eyed intensity of a man who has completely dissolved into his own method acting.

And then… very softly… accent only barely hidden beneath the thin veil of a fake Italian accent…

“Johnny Dorn. Rudy Giuliani,” he says the names like he’s disappointed in them personally. “Y’boys thought you could walk into our place of business and run the streets, huh? That the Whoreleones were pushovers?”

A wet sucking sound comes from somewhere inside the fake jowls.

“See, men like you… you think violence is about anger. But real violence? It’s just business.”

The camera finally zooms out. Daytona (by way of Marlon Brando) sits at a cheap card table. The backroom of the restaurant has been transformed into a poor facsimile of what Sicily might look like to a kindergartner.

Three fake grape vines.

A kiddie pool meant to replicate the ocean.

A cardboard moon hanging from a very obvious fishing wire.

Fred Dick laying sultrily on a pile of pizza boxes with a large, black wig and a dress that does nothing to hide the fact that his CGI penis is still very much in play.

“Johnny. Rudy… The Whoreleones are bigger’n wrasslin’. Bigger’n the streets. Bigger’n violence. Robrico Fettucine and I built this family from nothin’.”

The cardboard moon suddenly falls from the ceiling and lands directly in the kiddie pool with a splash. Nobody reacts. Daytona doesn’t even blink. He’s too busy monologuing.

“We are… professionals.”

Fred suddenly sits upright from the pizzas boxes.

“AND I’MA WOMAN NOW!”

“NOT NOW, FREDDY!”

Fred collapses back into the boxes with a sadness that knows no word to be properly described.

Daytona rises slowly from the table. The accordion music grows louder.

“You boys got two choices,” he says, pacing around the room with his hands folded behind his back. “You can walk into that ring and lose respectfully to the greatest cinematic minds in professional wrasslin’ history…”

He pauses, taking a deep breath of air as his fake jowls tremble.

“...or Marlon Brando’s gonna make-ah you-ah sleep with the fishes.”

Silence. The camera once again zooms in on Daytona Brando’s face.

“...capiche?”

Suddenly, from behind the camera, Rob’s voice calls out.

“Brother, that was kinda hard actually.”

Daytona immediately breaks character and points excitedly.

“SEE?! SEE?! THAT’S FUCKIN’ CINEMA! YEEHAW!”

BEHIND THE SCENES

The footage quality changes abruptly. No music. No title card. Just grainy handheld footage from somewhere dark. The camera peers through the tiny crack of a doorway into the Italian restaurant’s dining room. Rob, Anna, and Fred are all seen sitting in one of the booths.

Nobody speaks for a while.

From somewhere deeper in the restaurant, Daytona can faintly be heard practicing the Brando voice to himself.

Rob stares downward. “...you guys think he’s okay?”

Anna doesn’t answer immediately.

Fred looks up. “...I mean, he swallowed two fuggin cotton balls earlier.”

“I know he swallowed two cotton balls, Fred.”

Another long silence. Rob rubs his eyes.

“I’m serious, man,” he says. “He’s been weird for… shit, months.”

Fred nods solemnly. “The desert changed him.”

Rob glances toward the doorway. “You think maybe this movie’s thing’s… too much?”

Anna sighs and shrugs. “We think… Daytona’s the kinda person where, if he stops pretending to be somebody else for too long…”

She trails off. Nobody finishes the thought.

Then, very quietly, Fred says, “...I miss the good ol’ days.”

Rob nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too, bud.”

The camera lingers there for another few seconds. Then, from somewhere deeper in the restaurant, Daytona can be heard shouting.

“ROB DE NIRO, YOU SONUVABITCH! GET YOUR ASS BACK ON SET!”

Rob closes his eyes.

“...he thinks I’m De Niro now.”

“We’ve gotta do something,” Anna says. “We’ve gotta… snap him out of this.

“I’ve got an idea,” Rob says. “Just… follow my lead, okay?”

SCENE 3

The former Papa Gnocchi is on the ground with fake blood and bullet holes all over his robe. In his place, the current Papa Gnocchi kisses Robrico on the cheeks.

“You have our blessing.”

Robrico bows his head solemnly.

“Thank you, Papa Gnocchi. It’ll be done.”

Papa Gnocchi nods gravely.

“Good.”

A long silence.

Then…

CUT TO:

Black and white footage. Rain pounds against a motel window.

Or, at least, what the movie claims is rain. In reality, Fred stands spraying a garden hose from behind the wobbling camera he’s holding.

Through the window, inside the motel room, “Marlon Brando” sleeps shirtless beneath floral-patterned sheets. His fake jowls have partially melted during the night. One cotton ball hangs halfway out of his mouth. His slicked-back hair stains the pillow black.

The camera slowly pushes inward. Accordion music hums softly. The motel room door creaks open. Robrico Fettucine enters silently wearing a trench coat and holding something in a plastic bag.

He pauses dramatically and looks into the camera.

“For the family,” he whispers.

The accordion music swells. Slowly, very carefully, Rob reaches into the bag. The audience never sees what he removes from it. Only Rob’s face. Serious. Almost mournful.

Rob gently lifts the blankets beside Daytona Brando and places the unseen object underneath, tucking it in carefully. He shakes his head before kissing two fingers and pressing them softly against the blanket.

“For the Whoreleones.”

He starts to back towards the door, but before leaving, he stops and looks back toward Daytona sleeping in bed. For a second, Rob looks genuinely worried… and then Daytona suddenly rolls over in his sleep, muttering “...that’s cinema…”

Rob closes his eyes. “...Jesus Christ.”

He exits. The door creaks shut. The camera slowly pushes inward toward the bed. Daytona stirs and groans, scratching at his chest before his eyes start to flutter open. He squints toward the dark lump beneath the blankets. At first, there’s a look of confusion… and then suspicion.

He reaches trembling fingers towards the sheets. The music abruptly stops, replaced by wanton silence. Daytona pulls the blanket downward… and there’s a papier-mache replica of Harley Walker’s severed head staring back at him, smeared in ‘blood’ that’s actually just marinara sauce.

At first, Daytona just stares in shock… and then he unleashes the loudest, longest scream in cinematic history.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

He launches backward out of the bed so violently the mattress flips halfway off the frame. The fake jowls fly from his face. A lamp crashes to the floor as the camera shakes violently. The screaming doesn’t stop, even as Rob, Fred, and Anna burst into the room. They find Daytona scrambling backwards across the carpet on all fours like a feral animal.

“HE’S DEAD! HE’S FUCKIN’ DEAD! HARLEY’S FUCKIN’ DEAD!”

The papier-mache Harley Walker head stares blankly upward as Rob cautiously steps forward. “Calm down, ‘Tone,” he says. “You’re fine. It’s fine. We just wanted to make you realize how dumb this i–”

But Daytona isn’t listening. His eyes are wild; oil-slicked hair hanging in dirty strands over his face, spirit gum melting down his neck. He points a trembling finger toward the papier-mache head. “...you killed him!”

Fred immediately panics. “WE DIDN’T KILL HARLEY!”

Anna pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fred, Harley’s not actually dead.”

Rob takes another cautious step forward. “Brother, look at me.”

Daytona doesn’t. He just keeps staring at the fake head laying on the bed. The room falls silent except for Fred’s hose still spraying against the motel window outside.

“Daytona,” Rob says. “I dunno what’s been going on with you, man, but… we’re worried about you. We miss you. The old you.”

For a brief second, the room softens as an uncomfortable silence takes hold. Daytona lowers his head, biting at his lower lip, his eyes finally leaving the fake head to look towards Rob. “Robby, I’m sorry. I just… ain’t been myself lat–”

Then the Harley Walker head slowly rolls sideways off the bed and lands face-first onto the carpet with a wet splat.

Fred screams. “JESUS CHRIST, IT’S STILL ALIVE!”

And Daytona completely snaps.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

He shoves past Rob so hard the camera nearly falls over and bolts from the motel room, barefoot and half-naked. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers violently overhead while Daytona sprints screaming through the parking lot.

“YOU CAN’T KILL MARLON BRANDO!” he shouts.

Car alarms immediately begin going off. A stray dog starts barking somewhere in the distance. Fred bursts out of the motel behind him, wig flailing in the breeze. “DAYTONA! YOU AIN’T EVEN ITALIAN!”

Daytona disappears into the darkness beyond the motel lights before the camera slowly pans back toward Rob standing in the parking lot, holding Harley Walker’s papier-mache head beneath one arm, marinara sauce dripping slow onto his boots. Anna steps beside him.

Nobody says anything until Anna finally asks, “...you think it worked?”

Rob stares out toward the darkness, a newly lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

“...nope.”

Then faintly, from somewhere out in the distance…

“THAT’S CINEMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

PRODUCTION HELL

The next morning. No accordion music. No narration. Just the faint buzz of fluorescent lights as the camera slowly pushes through the back entrance of the Italian-restaurant-turned-movie-set… and stops when it finds absolute devastation.

Spaghetti sauce stains the walls in violent streaks. Pizza boxes have been ripped and torn to shreds. There’s several fist-shaped holes in the drywall that weren’t there before.

Rob, Anna, and Fred slowly enter from behind the camera. Nobody speaks for a while. Fred quietly removes the Angry Italian Woman wig, Rob unbuttons his suit jacket, and Anna just stares at the destruction in complete silence.

In the center of the wreckage sits a half naked Daytona. His head hangs low, long black locks covering his face.

“Tone?” Rob calls out.

Slowly, Daytona raises his head.

“He looks like that bimch from the Ring,” Fred mutters under his breath.

“Well hey, y’all,” Daytona smiles, moving hair from his face “... I, uh, I think maybe I’m done with cinema.”

Rob pulls out a cigarette and lights it, snorting while surveying the scene. He walks over to Daytona and pats him on the back.

“You tried,” he comforts his friend - holding out a hand to pull him up.

We end on a pano shot of the Poor Whoresmen walking out shoulder to shoulder.

“Knew we shoulda done the airboat swamp tours instead,” Daytona says.

“People do love gators,” Anna adds.

“I think I could outrun a gator,” Fred says.

“Yeah, well,” Rob says. “Sometimes you eat the gator, sometimes the gator eats you.”

“Fuckin’ profound,” Daytona says. “Now, that’s cinema.”

“No,” Rob says. “It ain’t.”

FADE TO BLACK IN LOVING MEMORY OF HARLEY WALKER AND KYLE BUSCH

🕯️🕊️🕯️