Porfle Admits: "I Was Christopher Walken's Personal Chef" (short story)

 

(I wrote this short story way back in 2008. While entirely fictional, I like to think that it could have happened, or perhaps even should have happened.)

 


Back when I was Christopher Walken's personal chef, I never knew what random horrors each day would bring. I remember one day in particular, in which Mr. Walken sat in his darkened study, lost in one of his strange, pensive moods. He summoned me just as the grandfather clock in the drafty hallway struck noon.




I stood there, awaiting his orders, for quite a long time. He sat in a large leather-bound chair, hands pressed together under his chin, as though pondering his options with grave consideration. Finally, in his familiar low, halting voice, he spoke.



"I would like...the Buggles," he said. "For lunch."



"The Buggles?" I repeated, not sure I'd understood. "You mean, the 80s 'new wave' musical duo?"



"Yes, exactly," he said, relieved that I was familiar with them. A slight smile played upon his lips as he nodded, relishing some mental image that I daren't even imagine.



I wasn't sure what to say. Where the hell had this idea come from? "The Buggles broke up a long time ago," I informed him. "They're, uh, not a duo anymore."



"Then..." he said thoughtfully, "you could get...the ingredients for the Buggles...and make some new ones."



I thought about this seemingly nonsensical request for a moment, when suddenly the horrifying truth dawned on me. By "ingredients", he meant that he wanted me to kidnap Trevor Horn and Geoffrey Downes, the original members of the Buggles, and cook them for lunch. His lunch.



"I can't do that," I said firmly. "I...I won't do that. They're human beings, not just 'ingredients' for some ghastly lunch for you." I cringed, waiting for him to explode in a fit of anger, or at least send me packing.



"Oh," he said softly, as though my words had actually made some kind of sense to him. "Okay. Well, then...I'm not sure what other...lunch options...are available to me. Let's go into the kitchen and...explore them. Shall we?" He rose from his chair and waited for me to lead him into the kitchen, since he had no idea where it was. So I did.



When we got there, he gazed around in silent wonder at all the utensils and appliances. Finally, he spoke. "Where do you keep...the people?" he asked, gesturing with his hands.



"The people? What people?" I inquired, baffled.



"The people that you cook," he explained. "Where...do you store them before preparing them...for my meals?" He asked this as though it were the most normal thing in the world.



Forcing back a retching wave of hot bile, I contained my revulsion long enough to respond. "I don't cook people!" I exclaimed. "I cook food! FOOD! Nobody cooks PEOPLE! That's HORRIBLE!"



He looked at me with a sort of serene puzzlement for a moment, then shrugged. He noticed something on the counter. "What is that?"



"That," I said, grateful for the change of subject, "is a sandwich that I made for my own lunch."



"Ah," he said, amazed. "A...sandwich. Could you make one of those...for me?"



"Sure," I said, relieved. "What kind of sandwich would you like?



"Are there...different kinds?"



"Oh, yes," I said. "You can put whatever you want in a sandwich. Any kind of meat, in addition to things like tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, pickles--"



"Make me," he said with growing excitement, "a Buggles sandwich."



I slapped my forehead. "No...no, you don't understand," I said, exasperated. "You can't--"



"With some of that pickles and...er, cheese things that you indicated," he added. "And I...I really am hungry today, so...make me two of these Buggles sandwiches. Each of them containing half...of each separate Buggle. With cheese." He took a deep breath and stood back with his mouth open, eagerly waiting for me to confirm my understanding of his instructions.



"Look, Mr. Walken," I said, finally tiring of this charade and spelling it out for him, slowly and plainly. "I cannot and WILL not cook people for you to eat for lunch, or for any other meal. You're asking me to commit MURDER, for heaven's sake...so that YOU can indulge in cannibalism, one of the most utterly HEINOUS acts a person can commit. Why, the very notion of this fills me with an inutterable HORROR which I can scant express with mere words!" I leaned wearily against the counter, drained by my emotional turmoil.



He thought about this for a long time, then held up his index finger and began to speak. "Are you...trying to tell me..." he said slowly, a look of concern on his face, "that we...are out of cheese?"



"NO!" I screamed. "WE'RE OUT OF BUGGLES! YOU'LL HAVE TO EAT SOMETHING ELSE!"



"Ah," he nodded, appearing to understand me at last. I waited anxiously, fearfully, for his next words. He extended his arm so that his sleeve would retract and reveal his wristwatch. He looked at it, furrowing his brow. "It's five minutes after twelve," he announced. "Is my lunch ready yet?"



"No," I said. "You told me you wanted the Buggles for lunch, and I told you I could not and would not kidnap and cook them for you. Therefore, you have yet to present me with a viable alternative meal to prepare for you."



"I understand," he affirmed. "Well, then," he said breezily, "I'll just invite some friends over for lunch, and you can cook some of them." He pulled an address book out of his pocket, went over to the phone, and began calling people while I simply stared at him in disbelief. Thirty minutes later, the livingroom was filled with guests milling around drinking cocktails.



"There's Meryl Streep," he said to me in a low voice, pointing. "I'd like some spaghetti and Streep balls as an appetizer. And over there," he added, indicating a gentleman standing next to the Picasso, "is Dennis Hopper. As an entree, I'd like some thick, juicy Dennis Hopper steaks. Ribeyes, of course."



"Of course," I said wearily.



"And to snack on...umm, who's left...oh, just do something fun with Steven Spielberg. Maybe a sort of festive meatloaf. Or some jerky. But you'd better hurry, because he never stays long."



"So...I just slaughter them now?" I asked.



"Yes, yes, just slaughter them now," he urged. "I'm famished."



Steeling myself, I clutched the meat cleaver and began to inch forward. Suddenly a wave of hysteria swept through me and I screamed at the top of my lungs: "NO! NO! I WON'T DO IT! I WON'T SLAUGHTER AND COOK HOLLYWOOD'S ELITE FOR YOUR LUNCH!"



With that, I flung the meat cleaver aside and ran shrieking from the room. On my way out, I could hear Mr. Walken explain to his guests, "Well, you just can't get good help these days."



Later, he found me hiding in the kitchen, trembling. He noticed my sandwich sitting uneaten on the counter. "Are you...going to eat that?" he asked.



"No, you can have it," I said in a quavering voice. "I couldn't bear to eat anything right now."



He picked up half of the sandwich and took a bite. "Mmm, this is very good," he appraised. "Who is it?"



It was Underwood Chicken Spread, but I lied. "It's Tom Cruise. I got a good deal on the cast of TOP GUN at the meat market."



And so, for the next several weeks, I gave Christopher Walken chicken spread sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and told him that we were working our way through the entire cast of TOP GUN. When that was over, I switched to deviled ham and told him we were starting in on PULP FICTION. This eventually presented a problem, since I'd forgotten that he was in it. So one day, two weeks into PULP FICTION, he asked, "When do I get to eat me for lunch?" Thinking fast, I opened up a can of Spam and pointed at it. "This is you," I said. "Oh...I look good," he drooled.

Porfle Admits: "I Was Christopher Walken's Personal Chef" (short story)

Is It A Christmas Story? Read "LIVE FREELY OR DIE HARDLY" And Decide For Yourself!

Here's a couple of things a lot of people don't know about the classic Bruce Willis action flick DIE HARD.  

 

One, it really happened. Two, John McClane, the NYPD cop portrayed by Willis in the film, wasn't by himself during this amazing adventure because I, too, was there. That's right--I have totally been cheated out of my rightful place in cool action-movie history by being left out of that stupid movie. So now, at long last, I have decided to set the record straight and recount the thrilling details of my incredible exploits during the great Nakatomi Tower hostage crisis so that the world will have yet another reason to admire me for how awesome I am.




What happened was, I had gotten out of the elevator on the wrong floor during my search for the secret office of a fly-by-night back-alley bikini waxing technician named Wilbur Cranflanflan. I wasn't really interested in getting a bikini wax, but I'd just lost a bet with a friend of mine who insisted that there were only nine Bradys in "The Brady Bunch" (including Alice), while I was certain that there were at least five or six hundred.



I mean, who knew that they reused the same ones for every episode? You don't reuse the same hypodermic needle when you're giving out flu shots, and it seems only logical to me that the safety requirements for proper sterilization should extend to the individual Bradys as well. But apparently Sherwood Schwartz didn't share my concern, so, long story short, I was obliged to get a bikini wax from this Wilbur Cranflanflan, who, despite his silly name, had been highly recommended to me by my personal trainer, Biff.



As it turned out, I was in the wrong building anyway, but I noticed that there was a party under way when the elevator doors opened and, party animal that I was in my reckless youth, I quickly jumped in and started to mingle. People began staring at me right away, which I attributed to both my stunning good looks and the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants due to my impending bikini wax. "Please try to control yourselves, girls," I said modestly. "There's only one of me to go around." Wary of the growing sexual tension roiling within the female inhabitants of my vicinity, I slipped into an office and came face-to-face with Detective John McClane, who was walking around on the carpet barefoot, making fists with his feet. "Fists with your feet," he muttered with amusement.



I held up my right hand in the traditional Apache greeting. "How, Fists With Your Feet," I said. "My name is porfle, but my Native American name is 'Dances Like Jeff Goldblum.' Are you waiting to get a bikini wax, too?"



Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted from the main ballroom, followed by piercing screams! When I finally stopped screaming, McClane (as he preferred to be called, I discovered later) grabbed me by the collar and we ducked into a nearby stairwell. "Terrorists!" he cried. "I have to stop them!"



"And I have to find Wilbur Cranflanflan!" I added breathlessly as we ran upstairs to a floor that was still under construction. McClane paced around nervously, trying to decide what to do next, while I gaped in awe at all the cool power tools that were just laying around waiting for me to play with them. There was even an official orange hardhat for me to wear! I barely noticed when McClane picked up a nearby phone and started trying to contact the police, because I was in the process of hefting a massive circular saw that I'd just flicked on and was sawing my way through several stacks of expensive imported lumber along with various items of brand new office furniture.



"CONSTRUCTION WORKER PORFLE ON THE JOB!" I screamed in giddy delight over the ear-splitting din as the air was filled with billowing clouds of sawdust. Momentarily distracted by McClane's frantic attempts to make himself heard over the racket, I sawed my way right through one of those fancy boardroom tables and neatly bisected the telephone. McClane stood there dumfounded as the severed cord dangled from the receiver he was holding to his ear. But before he could thank me or whatever he was going to say, there came the sound of footsteps quickly approaching the room. It was the terrorists!



McClane dived under a table. "DUCK!" he shouted.



"WHERE?" I cried, glancing around. That's just what we needed in a fix like this, I thought--some stupid duck flying around!



At that moment, a huge, blonde German guy with a machine gun leapt into the doorway, his face twisted with rage. I wheeled around in surprise and let go of the circular saw, which flew across the room and landed right on the guy's foot. He barked in pain and started hopping around on his other foot, unleashing a stream of German cuss words that sounded even dirtier than the American ones, while McClane seized the opportunity to run up behind him and hit him over the head with a large potted plant. The German guy fell back against the wall and slid to the floor, the plant still perched decoratively on his head.



A sudden thought struck me. "Omigosh! What if THAT'S Wilbur Cranflanflan?"



McClane glared at me, trying to catch his breath. "Who the hell's Wilbur Cranflanflan?"



"He's the guy that this whole thing is all about!" I shot back, rolling my eyes. Then, while a puzzled McClane processed this information, I began to formulate a plan. We would crawl around in the air ducts and climb up and down the elevator shafts until we found a way to blow up the whole building, and then everything would be okay. I quickly relayed this plan to McClane, who gaped at me in sheer disbelief. I think my cool plan had totally astounded him!



Suddenly, a cruel but snidely sophisticated voice came from behind us. We spun around in unison to find a tall, dapper gent with a Van Dyke beard backed by a gang of vicious-looking henchmen with machine guns. "So," he said to McClane in an oily European accent, "you must be the 'cowboy' who has been running around trying to...how do you say it...'throw a monkey wrench' into my nefarious scheme."



McClane stood up straight and coolly met the man's gaze with an insouciant smirk. "And you," he said slowly, relishing the moment, "must be Wilbur Cranflanflan."



The man's smug look wilted. "No, I'm Hans Gruber," he said uneasily. "Who the hell is Wilbur Cranflanflan?"



"There," I volunteered, pointing to the unconscious guy with the potted plant sticking out of his head. "That's Wilbur Cranflanflan."



"No, he isn't," Gruber frowned. "That's my henchman, Karl."



"Well," I shrugged, "if it isn't you, and it isn't that guy, then it must be one of these other guys." I indicated the henchmen standing behind him. "Okay, which one of you guys is Wilbur Cranflanflan?"



The henchmen glanced around guiltily at one another for a few moments, then turned to Gruber and shrugged. "We're not sure, boss," one of them admitted.



"What do you mean, 'you're not sure'?"



"Well," he said sheepishly, "we don't know what this Cranflanflan guy looks like, and--"



"Okay, wait," Gruber said, waving them off with an impatient look. "I am becoming tired of this game." He pointed at me and McClane. "Kill them both. Now."



They all raised their machine guns. This was it. I had to think fast.



"FOOD FIGHT!!!" I screamed.



In the momentary confusion that settled over the group, I grabbed what appeared to be a picnic lunch bag out of Gruber's hands and began to throw its contents at them. "Yippie-ki-yay, melon farmers!" I cried. Hans Gruber recoiled, eyes wide with terror, as the bag's contents came flying straight toward him.



"MY DETONATORS!" he shrieked.



The explosion took out the entire floor and blasted every window on all four sides of the building to smithereens. Black smoke churned from the gaping blast holes while shattered glass rained down on the street below. The shock wave could be felt for several blocks.



By some insanely unlikely freak of scientific happenstance, I was totally unharmed by the blast. Some physics professors refer to this rare phenomenon as the "Sub-Atomic Shield of Stupidity", while others blame it on an ancient Mayan curse passed down through the ages by living mummies. As for McClane, the explosion blew him into an air duct, which he had to crawl around in for several hours until he finally fell down an elevator shaft.



Hans Gruber and his henchmen, of course, were declared missing and presumed dead--that is, until they turned up a few years later in the small town of Miller's Crotch, South Dakota, delivering singing telegrams in gorilla suits. They all had amnesia and remembered nothing of their former lives save for the mysterious name "Wilbur Cranflanflan", the mere mention of which sent them screaming hysterically up trees and down manholes.



Anyway, you can see how markedly different Hollywood's version of the events is from what really happened. They added a lot of stuff to make it more exciting, but more importantly, they totally ignored my daring and heroic actions during the crisis. The only explanation that I've been able to come up with is that they simply couldn't find anyone great enough to play me in the movie. One good thing did come out of it, though--after miraculously surviving the explosion, I no longer needed that bikini wax. 

 

Is It A Christmas Story? Read "LIVE FREELY OR DIE HARDLY" And Decide For Yourself!

PORFLE VS. PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHO LARRY STORCH IS

(The following is my tribute to the late, great Larry Storch, which I wrote many years ago and repost here in fond memory of him.)


"What the hell do you mean, 'who's Larry Storch?'"

"I mean I don't know who the hell Larry Storch is!  Who the hell is Larry Storch?"

Infuriating, isn't it?  If you're like me, and find yourself in this situation at least once a day, you can understand why there are so many sudden, unexplained attacks across America every day.  Chances are, it's someone who knows who Larry Storch is attacking someone who doesn't know who he is. 

Here's an example that may sound woefully familiar to you: several years ago I got set up on a blind date, and I gallantly called the young lady up in advance to verify the time and place where we'd meet--which, by the way, was a Denny's on Wilton Boulevard, since I wanted to impress her.  She asked me what I looked like, and I told her (again, wanting to impress her) that I resembled actor Larry Storch. 

"Who's Larry Storch?" she inquired. 

"What the hell do you mean, 'who's Larry Storch?'" I screamed, a volcanic eruption of blazing hot fury erupting like a million geysers from every fiber of my tortured being. 

"I mean I don't know who the hell Larry Storch is!  Who the hell is Larry Storch?" she persisted, incredibly unaware of her own utter stupidity.

"What are you, incredibly unaware of your own utter stupidity or something?" I shrieked, kicking the glass walls out of the phone booth that I was standing in and repeatedly smashing my body into the frame until the whole thing fell over into the street with a resounding crash.  "ARE YOU SOME KIND OF A TOTAL F**KING IDIOT?  GRRRRRRR!!!  By the way, that's the Denny's on Wilton Boulevard, not the one next to the bowling alley on Burton Street."

Well, she never showed up.  She was probably too embarrassed by her own utter stupidity to show her face, and you can hardly blame her, but she could at least have stopped by my house later for the obligatory blind-date sex that I have come to expect over the years.  I've never actually had sex on a blind date, of course, but I have come to expect it.  Anyway, it's just as well, because I found out later that she looked more like Larry Storch than I do. 

I guess one of the reasons that women who look like Larry Storch don't know who he is might be that people are reluctant to tell these women that they look like Larry Storch.  But that's still no excuse for never having heard of him.  Anyone who's ever watched an episode of "F Troop" or "Ghost Busters" should not only know who he is, but should in fact consider him to be one of the greatest human beings who ever walked the face of the earth, next to Robert Loggia and Ben Gazzara.  They should also know who Forrest Tucker is as well, since he co-starred in both of those series with Larry Storch. 

Well, I brought all of this up at a political fundraiser that I attended several years ago, in an attempt to liven up what I considered to be some pretty boring chit-chat amongst a gaggle of pseudo-sophisticates who were standing around sipping drinks and tittering a lot.  When the mayor's wife gaily inquired, "Who's Forrest Tucker?" I poured my drink in her face.  As I congratulated myself for my restraint, another total moron--I think it was the mayor--chimed in with, "How dare you!  And 'Ghostbusters' was a movie with Bill Murray in it, not a television series!" 

Again I held my temper, and responded by merely flinging the hors d'ouevres table over, drenching several people with caviar and other gooey, expensive treats.  But then, just as I was returning to my usual casual demeanor, I heard a voice say, "Yeah, and who the hell's Larry Storch?"  The next few moments are still a blur in my memory, but the next day there was a picture of me on the front page of the newspaper in which some quick-thinking photographer had managed to catch me in mid-air as I hurled myself at the governor with the crazed look of a kabuki dancer. 

My interest in politics continued when I later attended the Carter-Ford debate and, after furiously waving my hand for several minutes, managed to get called upon to ask the presidential candidates a question.  When the guy held the microphone up to my face I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and asked, "How do you feel about Larry Storch?"  A perplexed Jimmy Carter smiled uncertainly and asked, "Who's Larry Storch?" 

Just as I was about to charge the stage and hurl myself at him, Gerald Ford responded confidently, "Larry Storch is the greatest actor who ever lived.  Perhaps even the greatest human being who ever lived."  Banging the podium to emphasize each word, he added, "I...love...Larry...Storch!" The audience erupted with unrestrained cheers and applause! Well, I did, anyway.  And I sure as hell voted for Gerald Ford that year.  Jimmy Carter won, though, and, as you might expect, my extensive campaign to have Larry Storch's Birthday declared a national holiday was totally ignored by the government of the United States of America for the next four years.  Talk about malaise.  That, and possibly the Iran hostage situation as well, resulted in Carter losing his bid for re-election.  Take that, Carter!  Betcha know who Larry Storch is now!  BWAH-ha-ha!!!

Well, I've cut down on my attacks in recent years.  Maybe because of the wisdom and maturity that come with age, or maybe because I was getting beaten up a lot.  But the realization that attacking people because they don't know who Larry Storch is might not be a good thing to do finally came to me as I was discussing future attacks with my trusted consigleri, Tom Hagen.  Tom, not a wartime consigleri, is often the voice of reason in contrast with my unrestrained hostility, as can be heard in the following exchange...

TOM: Now, former President Carter and the Governor of Texas are on the run. Are they worth it? And are we strong? Is it worth it? I mean you've won...you want to attack everybody?

PORFLE: I don't feel I have to attack everybody, Tom. Just people who don't know who Larry Storch is, that's all. Now, are you gonna come along with me in these things I have to do or what? Because if not, you can take your "F Troop", your "Ghost Busters", and your "Dean Martin Celebrity Roast" DVDs...trade 'em all in for Adam Sandler movies.

TOM: Why do you hurt me, porfle? I've always been loyal to you. I mean, what is this?

PORFLE: You're right, Tom.  I should stop attacking people who don't know who Larry Storch is.

TOM: Well, you should try to cut down, anyway.

PORFLE VS. PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHO LARRY STORCH IS