A few months ago, when I found out about the Total Recall reboot, I decided to write an email to the necessary parties—i.e., the executive producers, director, writers, and cast. I had one concern about this Total Recall reboot and it wasn’t, Why? Is the loose adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s short story “We Can Remember It for You Wholesale” from 1990, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, awesome, therefore making a reboot unnecessary? Sure. But Hollywood’s just going to keep rebooting everything. And I can’t bother myself with that issue any longer. What my concern was, which had two parts, was this: a) Will it feature the three-breasted hooker? b) If so, can I play the role of the three-breasted hooker?
The day after my email I got a knock on my door. For most of my life, when I have no work and no plans, I hang out all morning in the shower of my apartment, ready to jump out, throw on the kimono hanging from the towel bar, and answer the knock of unexpected guests with a drawn-out, Mrs. Doubtfire-pitched “Who is it?”, the silk of my Japanese garment a confused geography on my soaked skin. So before it even registered who was at my door, I was really excited to have finally done that.
The unexpected guests turned out to be Colin Farrell and Len Wiseman, star and director of the Total Recall reboot.
“We got your email,” Farrell said in that feisty brogue of his.
“Yeah,” Wiseman said, adding, “I was working on an Underworld prequel when it popped up. I needed a break from that script, man. It’s focusing on the origins of the Death Dealers.”
Wiseman then went on for five more minutes about Underworld. You know how when someone starts talking to you in a highly specific manner about what they do or about something they’re involved in and it’s interesting to you but you don’t know enough about the subject so you just zone out? That happened a lot with Wiseman during our time together. The guy is fucking obsessed with Underworld.
When Farrell finally broke in, he said, “Put on a frock, lass, and we’ll go talk about the three-breasted hooker.” It was like magnetic poetry for my soul.
They took me to some club in Manhattan. deadmau5 was rocking his robot mouse head to some earth-quaking house while the patrons of the packed dance floor swayed together like a dense bed of seagrass.
“Isn’t it like 11:30 in the morning?” I screamed at Farrell.
“They’re on Beijing time,” he said.
They brought me into a VIP room, Wiseman rambling on about the concept of “Lycan time”, where an empty booth awaited us. The lights were low, the other booths full of soft chatter, and the roar of the music was now an underwater throb. Farrell ordered us some whiskey.
“So Kate said, Well what if the original Death Dealer was a religious figure? And I said—”
“Kate?” I interrupted Wiseman to ask.
“My wife. Kate Beckinsale. Selene from Underworld. You know casting her in that role was such—”
“Did you say BeckinSALE? I thought it was BeckinsDALE”?
“BeckinSALE. That role, I just can’t imagine anyone else being able to truly capture the strength and the, the vulnerability that Selene has. Kate just…”
“This whole time I thought it was BeckinsDALE,” I said, Wiseman continuing on about his wife’s character in the series.
“I did the same thing, mate,” Farrell said. “And I shagged her once.”
Farrell kept the whiskey coming. He and I chatted about this and that—well, his sexual conquests, mostly—while Wiseman kept on about Underworld. Time stretched out on a hammock.
Soon the world got fuzzy from booze. A man arrived with a tray of Jell-O shots. He introduced himself as George. He set the tray down on our table and then tore open his shirt. “WAZ UP!” screamed his stomach. Only it wasn’t his stomach but a little being attached to his stomach.
“Meet my brother Kuato,” George said.
“Holy shit,” I said, spraying bits of Jell-O all over the table.
“More shots!” said Kuato.
The world got fuzzier. So much so that I didn’t question the fact that I was blasting Jägerbombs with motherfucking Kuato, the psychic rebel leader from Total Recall. When I get to a certain level of drunkenness anything is plausible. Inhibitions and logic are thrown to the wind.
“You know how to party, man!” Kuato said. George, Kuato, and I were dancing on the table to the house beat that was less faint to us than everyone else in the room. “Doesn’t this guy know how to party, George?”
George was in a trance to compensate for Kuato.
“Oh shit, that’s right,” Kuato said. “He’s feeling it!” He added, laughing.
We did another shot before Kuato said, “What are we fucking around in here for? Let’s go check out deadmau5’s set!” He slapped his brother’s hip to wake him and they leaped from the table.
“Alright!” I said, jumping down after them.
“So about this part,” Farrell said.
“I’d almost forgotten!” I said, stopping, laughing. “Yes?”
I was so eager at that moment. I tried to play it cool but I couldn’t yank the grin from my face. They had taken me out, we partied, and now they were about to tell me one of my dreams was coming true. I mean, how can anyone play that cool? Why would you even try?
“We definitely have that character,” Wiseman said.
“But we need three boobs not one big one!” added Farrell.
Everyone laughed. Before I could react, Kuato thrust three shots in my face. “Triple Nipple!” I mechanically knocked them back and then, like an old TV, the picture shrunk to a speck and…
I woke up in the shower of my apartment, water cascading over my kimono.
Was it a memory implanted?
Nah, just my imagination again, running away with me.
Until I found a note in the pocket of my kimono.
“Sorry about the part,” it read. “No hard feelings, I hope. ‘Cause we gotta go see Skrillex next weekend!” It was signed “KUATO”.
THE END?
