Brody at the Baftas

It had been many years since Brody's last major success at the box office.  Brody had argued with his agent - "They don't give out Oscars for dog food adverts!" - and he had needed the cash.  However, times had gotten worse for the washed up Predators star.  He had been evicted from his decrepit bedsit and had been living in a men's hostel for the last year.  Luckily, his roommates were old friends of his - Andre 3000, his old chum from the Gillette days, and Willem Dafoe from the Grand Budapest Hotel.  3000 often made jokes about Brody's small anatomy, calling him Adrien Chode-y, but Brody would tell 3000 to shove his flute where the sun don't shine.  Dafoe would just stare and grin all day.  Strange, strange man.

Brody's trusty old Nokia 3210 started to chirp.  Only one person still called Brody - his long suffering agent.  "Brody! I have great news! You've been nominated for a Bafta!"

"For what?" Brody replied, confused. Maybe it was for that appearance on America's Wildest Police Chases when the Feds busted him for stealing sausages from Aldi.  His Cinquecento wasn't up to the getaway job and he ended up stalling going out of the multi story car park.

"The Brutalist!" declared Brody's Agent.  "Leading Actor!"

"Oh that load of rubbish?" Brody asked, baffled.  He scratched his head.  He had made a documentary on brutalist water towers for Polish language TV.  The producers didn't have the budget for overdubbing so he had to speak Polish phonetically.  His pronunciation was so bad that he had received bags of hate mail from all over Poland.

"Yes mate, that load of rubbish - do you want to go to the Bafta's or not?  There'll be a three course dinner and free bar...!"

"I'll be there!" declared Brody.  He raced over to the wardrobe, trying to find his tuxedo to no avail.  He instead found Andre 3000's green suit from the Hey Ya music video.  "That'll do nicely," he chuckled to himself.

...

It was the day of the Bafta's, and Brody had managed to squeeze his paunch into the lurid green suit.  The buttons on the shirt pulled tightly around his gut.  Unable to afford a chauffeur for the day, he waddled to his Cinquecento.  He turned the key in the ignition, but alas, the engine failed to start. "Come on you bastard!" yelled Brody, his mouth salivating at the thought of the banquet dinner. The sweat stains had already started to seep through the suit jacket armpits.

Out of nowhere, there was a sudden knock on the window.  It was Dafoe.  Brody wound down the window - "Give us a push please mate?"  Dafoe stood grinning, staring blankly at Brody.  "No time for these shenanigans Willem, give us a push!"  Dafoe walked to the rear of the car, reached out and gave the Cinquecento a shove with one hand.  The force of the shove was so great that the tiny Cinquecento was fired off at great speed.  The engine spluttered into life.  "Cheers Willem!" Brody shouted out of the window.  Brody looked in his rear window, but Dafoe was no where to be seen.

Brody parked up, directly on the red carpet.  He shot out of the car and raced towards the awards hall.  He barely acknowledged the sea of influencer, tiktok stars and journalists twatting about.  He had one thing on his greedy mind - dinner!

He sat down at the nearest available chair, coincidentally between his The Village co-stars Joaquin Phoenix and Brendan Gleeson.  They both gasped with horror when they saw Brody - they had not cast eyes on him for over 20 years - and they both wept salt tears.  Brody cared not, for he noticed the basket of freshly baked breads in the middle of the table and had set to work devouring the lot.

...

As the night rolled on, Brody had become increasingly tired and almost full.  He had eaten the meals of everyone on his table and drank enough champagne to give Oliver Reed a run for his money.  However, he noticed on the screen next to the stage, it was time for the Leading Actor award.  To present the award was none other than Brody's mate, Willem Dafoe!

"The Leading Actor award goes to..." said Dafoe, "...ADRIEN BRODY IN THE BRUTALIST!"

The place went silent.  No one had expected this.

Brody, unbothered by the nonchalant response, waddled up to the stage to collect his award.  Dafoe handed it over to him, and whispered in Brody's ear "The card said Ralph Fiennes but he's an arsehole so I said your name instead."  Dafoe grinned madly at Brody, and Brody drunkenly smiled back.

Just as Brody was about to give his speech, he felt a button pop off his shirt.  Then another, then another.  Then his trouser button flew off and landed in Timothée Chalamet's champagne.  The seems in Brody's trousers had started to burst.  His suit jacket had started to give up the ghost, exploding under the immense strain.  The noise and smell was something beyond compare.  When the screaming had died down, Brody realised that all of his garments had failed at the same time.  He was stood on stage, chopper out, wearing nothing but his Bafta and his winning smile.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen!" he hiccupped, and fell over in a drunken, blubbery heap.

Brody's birthday

Brody lay on his bare mattress, staring at the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of his bedsit.  The ceiling above him was stained with dark yellow patches. Cobwebs hung in the corners, encrusted with decaying flies.  The room felt as if no fresh air had entered in years. He pulled his bodyweight up to a seated position on the edge of his bed.  He wheezed with the effort.

Four years had passed since his last piece of film work.  His agent had made countless promises in the meantime: an alleged sequel to the Pianist turned out to be a measly voiceover part in a documentary on Danny Elfman, and the fee barely covered the travel cost.  He had sold his awards to keep himself afloat, but the funds had long since been squandered on Toby carveries and Frey Bentos pies.

It was Brody’s birthday.  Not that it mattered much anymore.  Even Andre 3000 had stopped sending him a birthday card, even since they had a bust up in Farm Foods over who would get the last packet of chicken dippers.  Brody gave a sigh – he might have won that battle at the time, but having consumed the whole packet raw on the drive home, he felt a sense of emptiness and longing for his lost friend.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar sound.  It was his trusty Nokia 3210, ringing urgently with its shrill metallic tone.  He raced to pick it up, fumbling with the small buttons – for you see, Brody had very chubby fingers.  He managed to answer it before the ringing stopped, and held the phone to his earlobe-less ear. 

“Congratulations!” proclaimed a robotic voice.  “You are today’s lucky winner!”

Brody was somewhat confused.  He didn’t remember entering himself in any competitions lately.  He had once won a car on Celebrity Bullseye in the early 90s – his trusty yellow Cinquecento – but Lady Luck didn’t shine her gaze upon Brody too frequently at all.  He listened intently.

“Come to the following address: 17 Maple Avenue, London SE6 3EL by 3pm today to claim your prize.  Come alone.”

The last part caught Brody by surprise.  Maybe this was a trap? He had encountered shadowy characters in his past; he had foiled a plan by Nicolas Cage to cut off Brody’s face with a junior hacksaw and sew it onto his own, and Nick Knowles had once lured Brody into his basement with the promise of a hog roast that never materialised.  However, Brody had nothing to lose at this stage, so he decided to see what his prize might be.

He put his soiled jean shorts on, tying his makeshift rope belt, and squeezed into his Tap-Out MMA t-shirt.

Brody arrived at the address.  The house looked familiar... maybe it was the bay windows, or the chimney pots... or maybe it was the fleet of Rolls Royces parked outside, or the lime green walls... anyway, he approached the door and knocked with his sweaty fist.

The door opened slightly, and Brody heard a sound within, a sort of high pitched Southern American accented voice.  “Come on in, birthday boy! I made biscuits ‘n’ gravy!”

Brody rushed inside – it was Andre 3000!  He knew Andre would never have deserted him on his birthday.  But Brody’s hunger overpowered any feelings of rekindling friendship.  He waddled at full pace towards the kitchen and flung open the fridge door.  He grabbed each item, one by one, flinging them down his gullet like a seagull swallowing fish.  He opened a carton of chocolate milk and long-armed it over himself. He had globs of butter all down his Tap-Out t-shirt, and had Nutella smeared on his face in a Zulu-esque pattern.  He grabbed fistfuls of raw chicken and uncooked prawns, tossing them into the air and catching them in his cavernous maw with gay abandon.

Andre 3000 stood and smiled, unzipping his trousers and licking his lips.  Everything was alright.

In search

In search

Day 1

Mist obscured the stars, it reminded him of where he grew up, that heavy dampness
of a wet winter morning. Pain shot through his hand as his cigarette burnt to the filter.
Distracted again. He hadn't slept, not one wink since reading the stories. He was a
slight, tall man, handsome but dishevelled like a beautiful church overgrown and
abandoned.

Reflexively he checked the German Luger in his pocket, ejected the magazine
fingered the bullets, chambered a round and checked the safety. He'd done this at
least three times already in the last twenty minutes. He'd considered himself a bit
OCD about keeping his gun locked and loaded but it had saved his life in the past,
obsession has its benefits.

He felt that he was close now. Definitely. He knew where to begin his search;
Mcdonalds, the bins outside Gregg's, the dingiest apartment block that he could
find. If those drew blank he was pretty sure that a man such as his prey would be
easily described and easily recognised. The quicker the better, he hated this goddamn
country.

He checked his watch, 6am. He waited at the door impatiently, minutes passed. A girl
in uniform appeared from a door behind the counter, she leisurely walked towards the
door fumbling with the keys.

"Morning" she smiled politely, falsely.

"Morning, gotta get my egg mcmuffin" he said brightly, trying to put her at ease.
Suddenly he was concious of his sodden dirty Mack and lank unkempt hair.
They walked to the counter in an awkward formation, he trying not to seem to eager.
Play it cool, light and breezy, just plain awkward.

"So an egg mcmuffin, anything else" she was trying to brighten the interaction now,
put him at ease. She looked tired.

"Just a coffee, black. And. Say. I was in here yesterday and saw a fat fellow in a
moo moo pick up my umbrella by mistake, I have his here" he gestured to a cheap
umbrella in his right hand as if only now discovering the mistake. "I was wondering
if he came in at any time in particular, it sounds silly but the umbrella that he took by
mistake was my grandfather's and I'd like it back"

She looked at him oddly, her brow furrowed slightly, only now he noticed how much
makeup she wore. Shit, she knows I'm lying. He started, or imagined that he had
started to sweat visibly. She frowned a second later then relaxed.

"I remember a guy like that came in here very regularly, but I haven't seen him in
months. He looked kind of li.."

He turned and left, his head suddenly woozy, felt like he was seasick.
"But what about your egg mc.."

He was out the door and into the still dark morning.


Day 2

He'd tried the fast food restaurants, the all night petrol stations, moo moo shop, the
24 supermarkets, the local hospitals even the fucking poetry circle. Nothing, oh they
remembered him alright, but he hadn't been seen in months. People didn't know his
name or where he lived. He seemed to have been a local of the Brixton area, but as for
exactly where he lived he was none the wiser.

Today he would just roam the streets between where he had been seen last. The
people he'd asked had looked at him strangely when he had asked. Who could blame
them; long lost cousin, witness to a mugging, grampa's prize umbrella, these were all
stupid excuses but what else could he say.

He couldn't tell them that he had a bullet with the guy's name on, that this guy had
ruined his life. God what had he become, so obsessed by finding one man.
He walked and walked, the streets grew more and more dilapidated. Now we're
talking. Was this it?

The tower block was bounded by an eight foot high timber fence, panels rotten and
roughly pushed aside at intervals. A gate for letting vehicles through was padlocked
shut.

The street was busy with people in suits, in track suits and red chords busily going
about their business. He couldn't just duck in with these people around. He cut back
to a construction equipment shop that he had passed. Returning with a hi viz jacket,
helmet and clipboard he ducked in the site.

The car park was cracked and overgrown with a single burnt out car rusting silently
away. At the entrance he found the doors open when he tried them. He was suddenly
aware of just how dangerous this could be, hypodermic syringes lay discarded and a
body shaped pile of rags lay in the foyer motionless. Alive or dead he didn't want to
disturb them.

Climbing the stairs an overpowering smell of mould and dank stagnant air hit him.
This place was dead. Then he spied it, a scrap of floral moo moo fabric was snagged
on the handrail. He knelt to inspect it, it was filthy and dry. He stood and raised it to
his nose, it smelt foul. Dabbing it with his tongue he could taste brackish dried sweat
and McDonald's cheese. He was close, he had to be.

He pulled his Luger out dramatically and silently stalked through the building.
After much searching he came across the first floor apartment of his prey. Rusted lilt
cans and filthy torn moo moos littered the floor. He picked his way through gingerly
so as not to give any prior warning of his presence. After methodically sweeping all
the rooms he came to the bedroom. A patina of dust covered every grimy mouldy
surface. The bed was empty, he pulled off the sheets, they stuck together sickeningly
and the smell was too much. He fell to his knees and vomited crying, after composing
himself he again felt the urge to wretch.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? GIVE ME MY FUCKING LIFE BACK!"

He collapsed pulling himself into the recovery position still sobbing.


Day 3

He shambled through the streets a broken man, his hair was wild from the night in the
tower block, his teeth furry. No one had come back in the night to the tower.
Maybe he'd moved on? Died?

He found himself in an off license.

"Bourbon"

He wondered through the streets swigging liberally from his brown paper bag
wrapped bottle. Stumbled on a flagstone. He passed an alley, one more look.

He could hear a rummaging and a low mumbled conversation. The type that is always
only with yourself.

There before him, bent over head deep in a dumpster was a hideously fat adipose man
in a moo moo.

The assassins mouth hung.

The man pulled himself further into the dumpster, his moo moo straining, feet just
off the ground wiggling. The scrabbling sound became louder and somehow more
determined.

This was him, he let the hand with the bottle in fall to his side and reached inside his
Mack for his Luger. Gently he released his grip on the bottle, it fell to the pocked
alley Tarmac and smashed.

Surprised the wiggling feet leant back onto the ground and the man turned around.
The assassin can see the rolls of sallow cellulite wrinkled fat realign as the man turns.
The assassin raises his Luger aiming it straight and true. The man finally manoeuvres
his head around. A rancid banana peel hangs limply from his revolting maw, sinuous
slather dripping viscously to the floor.

The assassin can feel his wretch reflex returning at this monsterous visage, he
squeezes the trigger twice. One to the head one to the heart. The flashes light up the
alley.

He smiles, I'm finally free.

He steps over his accomplishment. The man looks like a better looking, slimmer
chris moyles. The assassin's heart jumps. In that instant he realises that he cannot
undo what he has just done. Worse he knows that his prey has escaped him again. He
vomits and wretches uncontrollably falling to the floor and writhing in agony.

Quite out of nowhere he is laughing manically.

2001: A Space Brodysey

Disgraced star of Predators Adrien Brody lay on his bare yellow stained mattress. The bed below him creaked deafeningly with every movement of his orbular body. There were 10 more days before he could collect another fortnight's dole money, and he had already spazzed the lot on his own personal hog roast, the carcass of which remained in the corner of his bedroom.  He knew he was meant to cook the hog before eating it, but hunger had overtaken his senses and he had instead ripped the raw meat straight from the pig like a blubbery carnivorous walrus feasting on a seal pup.  He gnawed at a strewn bone, but it had already been stripped cleaner than a freshly pressure washed patio in summer.

His trusty Nokia rang; the familiar ringtone of the theme from Ghostbusters sounding in clear resonant monophonic tones.  He had programmed it in himself, he wistfully remembered, back before his fingers had become too podgy to press individual buttons.  He mashed the pad, managing to hit the answer call button.

"Brody, get out of bed you slovenly oaf, I have a contract with your name on!" exclaimed Brody's agent.  Brody's heart hadn't leapt this much since watching his precious recorded VHS of M&S Simply Food adverts (alas, the VHS had got chewed up in the player from overuse).

"What's the role?" Brody asked, desperately.
"Well, it's an arty number.  Quite a creative one, this movie.  It has lots of thought provoking moments and a heartwarming ending."
Brody scratched his head.  "You said all that before you made me audition for Obese Zombie #4 in 'Attack of the Obese Killer Zombies from Mars'."
"Just get over here, you tub of lard.  See you in half an hour."

To be continued...

The unimaginable hunger of Brody

Adrian Brody, star of the Pianist, was sat in his scummy bedsit. He waddled to the fridge and opened it. It was devoid of content except for a buzzing noise and a jar of very old mayonnaise, which had become separated and green. He opened the jar; the putrid smell filling the cold flat. He gagged, but was still tempted to dip a finger. He resisted, placing the jar back in the fridge for another more desperate day.

He wobbled down his street, pavement slabs cracking under his massive bulk, throwing cracked concrete into the faces of passers by. He was a man on a mission. 

He arrived at Lidl. He knew he had no money, so shoplifting was his last remaining option. The security in Lidl was always very lacklustre, due to the staff's lack of basic English skills. He dashed down the first aisle, stuffing bags of crisps and chocolate bars under his grey Umbro hoodie. He grabbed a frozen chicken, smoked salmon,  and tins of sweetcorn, stuffing them in every cavity of his person. He sighed under the weight of the stolen produce.

A spotty security guard spotted him. Fuck's sake, thought Brody, and he attempted to leg it... but alas, he fell, crashing hard to the ground. His last thought was trying to work out if the warm slurry in his pants was stolen butter or fecal matter.

Brody goes to Amsterdam - Part 1

The darkness swelled around him. The murky stench of tonight's food binge hung heavily in the air.

Restaurant star Adrien Brody was comatose from the 15 burger orgy that had recently concluded. His ashen, pasty frontage was smeared with condiment. A token french fry lay half-protruding from the considerable rolls of waxy stomach fat.

He woke with a start. The Nokia was cawing its angry drone. It was his agent.

"Adrien, there's a possibility of some work on the Continent. It's only a shampoo advert but let's face it - we need it right now. They say they'll pay a week's fees with expenses and put you up full board."

The final two words had got his attention. Brody sat up, sending an empty can of Tennent's clattering to the  floor. Thick mucus dribbled from his sallow mouth as he imagined being able to eat his way through a meal intended for an entire hotel full of guests. With extreme difficulty, he shifted his vast carcass out of the bed by rolling on to the floor. Realising he could no longer stand unaided, he dialed for help on the Nokia. Unlimited food for a week - he would not be letting this opportunity pass him by. All that was needed was to get on a flight to Amsterdam the next morning.

The airline check-in clerk flatly refused. There was absolutely no way, she gasped, that a passenger aircraft of any size would be allowed to fly with this man on board.

Brody sat down on two benches. Barring a miracle, he would not be flying. The dream of  40 breakfasts was slipping away. He needed a solution. His swollen membrane struggled with the possibility of sentient thought. Hadn't Thin Red Line producer Grant Hill used a military helicopter? His dubious agent was tasked to find a solution.