Here follows a story I wrote for, ‘Fan Fiction Comedy’ at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. The idea for a Fan Fiction Comedy show is simple, comics are asked to pen a story involving a celebrity then read it to a room of people. I decided to write about the ongoing identity dispute between Nick Nolte and Gary Busey, enjoy.
Gary Busey and Nick Nolte Mandingo Fighting
I was driving a car at high speed along the California Highway on a balmy Wednesday evening. The air was dry and heavy with the promise of a new life. I’d fled Melbourne in a haze of bad vibes, alimony and wife hate. I had rented a beat up car from the 80’s and decided the best way to escape my demons was to hit the road like Jack Kerouac or Bill Bryson or Hunter S. Thompson. I was somewhere near New Mexico when the engine started pinging and I finally stopped in a town called, Champagne. People say Americans don’t understand irony but that is only well informed speculation.
The engine was ranked and buggered in the guffle, there was steam coming out of all the things. I sat there on the side of the road holding my head in my hands; the weight of my failures sitting on me like a fat kid bully or an aggressive horse. I thought back to the life I’d left behind in Melbourne, the trail of emotional rubble and anger. I started to think about killing myself; but I knew that the only way to do it was to tie a noose around my neck and the other end to the steering wheel and throw myself from the car at 95mph and now the car was broke and I couldn’t even top myself like a fucking asshole.
Just then a man came past in a beat up ford pickup. He leaned out of the window and leered at me with his gigantic dry death, sliding from his lips like skin being removed from a potato. He said, ‘Hey buddy, whatcha doin?’ I told him that my car was broken and I was late for my own life. He laughed without empathy and then offered to give me a lift. I got in the car, and we lurched away. ‘Do you know the actor Nick Nolte?’ he asked, ‘not personally’ I mewed, ‘I’ve seen all his movies though’ ‘oh’ he said, ‘Well, would you like to see Nick Nolte fight Gary Busey in a mandingo fight to the death? Because that’s where I’m going right now.’ I said I would and he smiled that dry smile and we drove on in silence.
When we arrived at the fighting place, there were heaps of people there and also some celebrities. Mel Gibson sat unshaven and cat like at the front, his eyes glinting in the fluorescent sheen. Rick Gervais was there in a tight leather one piece number with a woman much larger than him and Eddie Murphy was sitting up the back with a large entourage of intimidating black men and not black men. The fighting area was a patch of oil stained shiny cement that looked as if someone was fixing a car on it.
Nick Nolte was sitting on a milk crate in the makeshift fighting area, the light was scurvey yellow and he was shiny with pre fight sweat. Gary Busey was bouncing around yelling at himself with a wild shock of hair; every now and then he’d look at Mel, who just gestured for him to be ‘calmè, calmè.’ A small man strode to the middle of the ring and stood in the ring and gestured for the fighters to come to the center. He whispered to each of them and they returned to their corners; then he turned to us and shouted, ‘this is to finally settle the question, who is Gary Busey and who is Nick Nolte the fight will continue until one or both of these men are dead.’ Nick stood glaring at Busey, who spat and sneered his enormous teeth at him: ‘FIGHT!’
The two overweight men lumbered at each other, Busey swinging wild and vicious at Nick’s head. Nick ducked and moved with a serpentine grace his cellulite shuddering under the yellow glow of the lights. The sound of the crowd was deafening, a primal howling that almost drowned out the wet – thwack of Busey connecting a kick into Nick’s flank. This snapped Nick into action and he stepped left then right and grabbed Busey’s head and began trying to break it off. Everyone went quiet for a second, thinking that perhaps he might be able to accomplish what so many before had wanted to do. Busey’s eyes were wild with fear as Nick held him with a vice like grip; the only sound that could be heard was Eddie Murphy’s horselaugh and the hoots of Ricky Gervais. This seemed to alert Busey to the danger he was in and he struggled like a fat eel and drove a vicious punch into the side of Nick’s ear, which sent him reeling. He followed it up with a front kick into Nick’s stomach knocking the wind out of him and dropping him to one knee. The crowd were roaring again and my compatriot elbowed my gently in the ribs urging me to watch. Busey dove upon Nick, smashing his head into the hard cement and shrieking ‘I’m Gary Busey, I’m Gary Busey!’ Nick seemed to topple over his own legs, like a crumply wumply and the audience were on their feet as Busey began to stomp on Nick’s body. I turned away in horror but Mel Gibson screamed at me to keep looking at his special boy, so I did. Nick had come to, and was grappling with Busey, the two rolling across the floor. Then Busey’s head seemed to just come off, and Nick slid himself from the dismembered body, stood up, roared like a lion, then we all left.
