Nick Nolte the wildman drunk woke up after a long night of reading, drinking and smoking and [with light storming in] realised he was no longer Nick Nolte.
As he brushed his teeth in the bathroom he further realised he hadn’t been Nick Nolte for a long time.
He showered, put his contacts in and tried to figure out some kind of time scale.
That cop film…the Eddie Murphy thing…was that it?
He walked into his second living room, in the beach pad bought by Nick Nolte the mad scientist in that green monster film, and thought about what he should do next.
A few seconds later he went sideways and thought about why he’d come to think of this in the first place.
There were all those books he’d been reading. The ones Walter said would give him trouble.
But, shit…just fiction and philosophy, he thought.
Cela and the Life of Pascal Dirty. Camus and the third man. Celine and the long journey through the night. Malaparte and…what was it…Virus? Disease? Sartre and the nausea. Takahashi and the Sayonara Gangsters. Hesse and those two guys…Nazi and Goldman.
Shit, just fiction and ideas…
He shrugged and went back to thinking of that other thing, the plan, what he should do next.
Nick Nolte the wildman drunk stood in front of the bathroom mirror and combed his hair. He brushed his teeth again, whiter than white, then smiled to the other.
‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘A Goddamn Philandropist.’
In the police station the first arrestee smirked and said, ‘no reason, man.’
He was slapped twice then put back in the cell.
The second arrestee smirked and said, ‘fuck you.’
He was given a ‘fuck you’ back, slapped and put back in his cell.
The seven arrestees that came next were all pretty much the same way. Continue reading