The Bumfuzzled Brothers and Carlo Rossi

Neo-Porn Noir
Part I

Down and Out
by Edgar Bumfuzzled

Enter Carlo
by Rutger Bumfuzzled

The Agreement
by Carlo Rossi

The Rebirth of Porn Noir
by Carlo Rossi and the Bumfuzzled Brothers

When Things Go Bad
by Carlo Rossi

Let's Shoot The Cock
by Rutger Bumfuzzled

Don't Shit Where You Eat
by Edgar Bumfuzzled

Love, Loss, and Disgust Between Blackouts
by Edgar Bumfuzzled

Down and Out
by Edgar Bumfuzzled

My brother Rutger and I were nearly flat broke. Our latest play, Three Fat Guys In a Long Narrow Room, had not won the same raves as our earlier efforts, 12 Rounds of Bareknuckle Theater and Surprise Surgery.

Audiences just weren't ready for Three Fat Guys. Critics called it "a confusing, offensive, meretricious nightmare," and "completely lacking in taste and beyond redemption," and even, "the worst show that has ever been on the stage." One reviewer wrote that he disliked the show so intensely that if anyone had ventured to stop him as he got up to leave in the middle of the first act, he would have ripped his own eyeballs from their sockets and plugged his ears with them rather than hear or see another moment of our play.

Three Fat Guys In a Long Narrow Room closed, tragically, after just two weeks of performances to mostly-empty houses. We lost a bundle of money.

Rutger and I found ourselves unprepared for this sudden, cruel failure. We spent those first few days after the show closed in a fog. We were in shock, I think, at first. Disbelief. We kept telling each other it probably wasn't as bad as it seemed for us. It would all turn out alright in the end. You couldn't count out the Bumfuzzled Brothers!

But as the magnitude of our failure became increasingly apparent and finally sank in, this sense optimism began to fade away. Rutger and I had been counting on a windfall of cash and a lengthy run out of Three Fat Guys. None of the theaters would have anything to do with us now. We were blacklisted. Theaters that used to support us and give us work turned their backs on us. We couldn't even get a meeting anywhere in town.

We were in trouble.

Debts were piling up fast and our money was pitifully low. The first of the month was less than two weeks away and we had nowhere near enough money for rent. We lacked the ambition and were woefully under-qualified to do anything but exactly what we had been doing, which was bringing our own brand of hilarious, ridiculous, challenging theater into the world. Now the world had risen up and soundly beaten us back, clearly proclaiming they wanted nothing to do with us, or our buffoonish dramatics.

So we went on a bender.

We drank jug wine, cheap bourbon, and even cheaper beer for days on end. We didn't leave our apartment for any reason other than more liquor and more cigarettes, stumbling out drunk and angry into the city streets once a day to stock up. Petty arguments and fights erupted between us. Furniture was broken. There were holes in walls, black eyes, and busted lips.

It got ugly. The drinking was enormous. For something like five or six days this continued unrelentingly. We trashed our apartment. The stink of the garbage and the rank, rotting food that littered the place mixed with our own awful, sweaty body odors (we'd freed ourselves from the tyranny of hygiene for the duration of this and all benders) to create an almost unbearable, oppressive stench that we tried to cover up only half-successfully with more cigarettes and more drink.

We were living like animals. Then, in the middle of the fog, something strange happened. The phone rang.

The sound of the ringing phone startled me, and Rutger too I think. The phone hadn't rung in days. We'd been excommunicated, after all, for the immensity of our flop. Shunned. Nobody wanted to talk to us. We looked at each other with who in the hell could this be expressions as the phone rang again.

Rutger stumbled out of his chair and reached for the phone.

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Enter Carlo
by Rutger Bumfuzzled

One day just after the miserable and cruel failure of one of our most hopeful theatrical pieces, Edgar and I received a telephone call at the apartment. I had just been grumbling about how we never got calls and how we should just get rid of the line. The phone company was probably thinking the same thing, and was likely to disconnect us soon anyway.

The guy on the phone introduced himself as Carlo Rossi, filmmaker. He explained that he had seen Three Fat Guys In a Long Narrow Room and wanted to meet with us about a "good martini" project he thought might work well with a twist of Bumfuzzled. He gave me a time and place and I agreed that we would meet him.

Edgar didn't want to leave our sty. He was as sharp and tightly wound as a faggot of thorns. But I felt we should step out into the night.

I gathered together Edgar, my knife, his knife, a couple of cans of spray paint, a Coke, and a candy bar. We walked five miles to the monument in Simmons Park, eager to talk with Carlo. Edgar vomited once along the way and I laughed and then he laughed. I stuck my knife into the can of Coke I had brought along and pre-shaken. I held the can up to the open window of a cab and the Coke sprayed all over the cabby as he waited stoically for a fare. We screamed at him, then ran half a block, sat down, and took a breather.

We went into a local crap diner. I grabbed some soup crackers off of the service bar while Edgar filled his pockets with after-dinner mints and matches. We left quickly. Edgar and I were a little hungry but more importantly we wanted to bring some gifts for our new acquaintance.

When we got to the park, we were almost an hour late. It was about 9:17 and the park was dark except for a few weak streetlights partially covered by tree branches. We knew approximately where the monument was and eventually found it well outside our area of approximation.

Sitting on one side of the base of the monument was our man. He looked a lot more serious than we were and wore a dark coat with the collar raised around his neck. He was smoking a small cigar or maybe something stronger. We walked over to him and handed him some crackers, a mint, some matches, a can of spray paint, and the candy bar. He took none of it, except the spray paint, which he immediately sprayed on his shoe. There had been a scuff, but now the worn part looked shiny.

For the first few minutes nobody said a word. We just kind of looked at one another.

We sat with Rossi for a while at the monument and vaguely got to know one another. Carlo helped this process along by pulling a bottle of scotch from his jacket. It was good scotch, something that Edgar and I had not tasted since we last had a friend with a good job. That relationship was now over, and I wondered how long this one would last.

We discovered that Rossi was fairly well grounded in the film industry. More specifically, he was accustomed to making adult films. Although we had occasionally viewed pornography, Edgar and I had never considered giving our pens to it.

Carlo spoke quickly, and he used weird made-up words with a strange speaking rhythm. Edgar and I were immediately skeptical of this new character, but agreed to roll along with him that night. After all, he seemed to have a little money and we had no immediate or future plans.

For a couple of down-and-out guys, Edgar and I kept up well with our exposure to most of the major artistic tidbits in the world. But, in general, we hated them all. We hadn't found anyone to truly appreciate our contributions and we were having a really tough run of it. Sometimes I thought this business of being an artist was perhaps just a way to justify not working but Edgar had more faith.

Carlo made us feel good, assuring us that he appreciated our work and feeding us a heap of drinks. He pitched about half the bottle of scotch off of a footbridge we were crossing, claiming it wasn't right for the occasion anymore.

We took his ride, a Lincoln or something, to a semi-swank drink spot over east. And somewhere among all of the sipping, the Bumfuzzleds and Carlo Rossi got on the same page.

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The Agreement
by Carlo Rossi

I don't like talking on the phone; that's why I asked the boys to meet me in the park. I had an important project with potentially huge financing behind it, and I sure wasn't going to make a decision like that over the phone. At least not without seeing first hand whether these boys were the geniuses they appeared to be from their work.

We were set to meet at the monument in Simmons Park. The monument was a sentimental place for me; I got my first blowjob there, and in the same spot four months later the same girl dumped me. When I asked why, she kicked me in the nuts and laughed. Love hurts. After a long wait the boys showed up and things started to roll.

* * *

I had just finished shooting a tense scene in my current feature when my receptionist Sandra notified me of the Bumfuzzled Brothers' arrival. They were a little more prompt today. Sandra showed them to my office. As the boys entered the room I put my feet up on my desk and knocked over an ashtray. I kicked it under the desk and smiled.

"Well, gentlemen. Welcome to my west-side production space. What do you think of the office? I just had it renovated. The desk is a maple veneer. Picked it up from IKEA. Pretty nice, huh?"

The guys grinned enthusiastically, and Edgar ran his hand across the desk. Leaning back, I rested my feet up atop the much-admired veneer of the desk.

"Mr. Rossi, what's all over the top of your shoe?" asked Rutger.

I looked at my shoes and discovered ashes splattered across the right one. I reached into my bottom right drawer and pulled out the black spray paint gifted to me the night before. Briefly shaking it, I sprayed the right shoe, and, after a moment of hesitation, I sprayed the left as well. A little trick my old man taught me. Don't polish your shoes because it's a fucking waste of time. Spraying them with paint is quicker and gives them a high quality gloss—personally, I think it's even better than any polish.

"Before I start speaking I'd like to say something: I saw Three Fat Guys in a Long Narrow Room and thought it was the best play I've seen in years. Absolutely splendorous. I loved all the fat swishing and slapping together in that small space, all the corpulence. It was a very profound statement on the excesses of society; very allegorical."

"Actually, it was just about three fat men in a very small space with all the resulting mayhem," said Rutger.

"But we're honored that you enjoyed the play, Mr. Rossi," said Edgar.

"Please, call me Carlo"

"Will do, Rossi. Got booze in this dump?" asked Edgar.

"Yeah, I'm parched and I don't write well without a few drinks in my belly," said Rutger, smacking his lips.

"That reminds me. I have a few gifts for you two. Here's a bottle of Old Granddad—my personal favorite whiskey—a bag of Oke-Doke, and two knives."

I handed everything over and Rutger immediately tore into the whiskey, failing to notice or mention that a third of it was already gone. Then he grabbed a fist full of the popcorn.

"What's the deal with the whiskey and popcorn? They're already open," said Edgar.

"Yeah, this popcorn is stale, Rossi," said Rutger as he spit a mouthful in his brother's lap.

I laughed. "The knives aren't new either. I bought them off of the TV for my two nephews—my brother Sal's kids. The stupid little bastards stabbed each other within a week. Sal wasn't too happy and returned them late one night by placing 'em in the tires of my Cutlass Supreme. My brother and I don't get along very well, but that's another story."

I was getting off track.

"Anyway, you two are immeasurably talented and I'd like to bring you in on my next project—my biggest one yet. I've been in the adult-film business for about five years now, and I've finally reached a point where there's enough financing to add more artistic creativity to my films. The money should be very good for everyone involved. Have either of you worked in porn before?"

"No, we haven't, but I would give my left testicle to work on this project," said Edgar.

"And I'd give his right one," added Rutger.

"Good! I like that kind of enthusiasm. The shooting will begin soon, but the main issue is the script: I don't have one. That's where you come in. The three of us will work on a full-feature porn script, and I want a familiar story that could hook in many people."

Edgar and Rutger were obviously very excited, and began chattering at once about their previous work. Within a few moments I lost focus on what they were saying, looking instead at my favorite Buddha, which displays his usual jolly grin and fat belly, although this wood carving has him fucking a tall woman from behind. I reached over and picked it up.

"Are you two into Buddhism?" I asked

"If it will get us the job, I'll become Buddha," said Edgar.

"And I'll be the next Dalai Lama," added Rutger.

"I don't know shit about it," I said, "but my girlfriend, Callie, is really into collecting Buddhas. She picked this one up at a head shop in Long Beach."

I set the fucking-Buddha down and Edgar picked it up, holding it up to the light at various odd angles. Maybe he was trying to see the rear entry.

"I don't have time to work on the script now because I need to get back to shooting. However, we'll meet back here at seven tonight to begin work," I told the brothers.

"Are there any limitations or any things we should consider including?" asked Edgar.

"At least two of the scenes should include a large strap-on dildo. One of my backers demanded it."

"No trouble at all, Carlo," assured Rutger.

"One last thing boys. An oral contract isn't worth the paper it's printed on, so I had my lawyer draw up this form. Just sign at the bottom."

I handed them two pens and they scribbled furiously. Rutger put the pens in his pocket.

"Would either of you like a cigar to celebrate our partnership?"

Both of them nodded yes. "I'd like two if you don't mind," said Edgar.

I pulled three Swisher Sweets from my top right drawer and showed the brothers to the door.

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The Rebirth of Porn Noir
The taped transcript of a meeting between Carlo Rossi and the Bumfuzzled Brothers
By Carlo Rossi and the Bumfuzzled Brothers

You boys don't mind if I tape this do you?

Excellent idea.

Good, because the tape's already rolling.

What the fuck?!?! If you're already recording then why did you even ask?

It's just a courtesy.

Well, fucking ask first next time.

Fine. So, boys? What have you got for me?


We've got lots of stuff, Mr. Rossi—

Please, gentlemen, we know each other well enough now. Call me Carlo.

We've got lots of stuff, Carlo.

We've got so much stuff it's hard to decide where to begin.

Well, why don't you start with whatever you feel is your best idea and we'll take it from there.


We don't really like to qualify our thought processes like that. We don't rank our ideas.

It's not a contest, you know.

Let's just hear one of these fucking ideas.

[Clearing his throat] Fine. I'll let Edgar begin.

Thank you, Rutger. Alright. Well, Carlo, you told us you wanted to do something different, something with more cinematic and dramatic significance than just your average, run-of-the-mill, fuck-fest porno movie. We see this as a tremendous opportunity.

We're proud to be a part of this opportunity.

That's right. It's an opportunity, Carlo, not only to have the honor of working with a man of your stature and genius—and making a bunch of money, hopefully, in the process—but also to redefine an entire genre of moviemaking.

We're breaking new ground here, fer christsakes.

We're absolutely breaking new ground. We're pioneers. We're like Magellan discovering the new world.

That was Columbus.

Whatever. Do you want to hear this fucking idea or not?

I'm breathless with anticipation.

Alright. Here it is: a porn musical.

A fucking porn musical!

We could call it The Sound of Fucking or Miss Saigon Does Dallas. We'd loosely base the story on an already existing musical that people are familiar with, and than we fill it with hardcore, raunchy debauching.

We think it's absolutely brilliant.

We see a lot of potential here.


So the actors, the porn actors, would be singing?

Not just singing, but dancing too.

That's right. We've envisioned full-scale musical sex numbers.


I see a potential roadblock.

What's that?

Any actor who can sing and dance with any competency and is good-looking enough to do porn, ain't gonna wanna do porn. They're qualified to pursue careers in the more, shall we say, traditional realms of the theater, and aren't going to get fucked in front of a camera for low wages.

I think it's a bad idea too, Carlo. It was Edgar's shitty concept. But that's just one idea. We've got lots more that are tons better.

I thought it wasn't a competition and you didn't like to qualify your ideas like that.


Let's hear another idea.

I think I'll let Edgar have another crack at it since he did so poorly the last time.

Thanks, Rutger. Alright. So you don't like the porn musical concept. Fine. We didn't fully realize the limitations within which we had to work. But that's alright. We've got another idea that I think will work nicely.

I already know which idea you mean, Edgar.

Than why don't you take it, Rutger.

That's alright. You're doing much better this time.

Fine. Alright. So picture this, Carlo: High Plaines Fucker. It's a porn western. It's about a mysterious drifter on horseback who travels around dispensing his own brand of justice and pleasure.

He just travels around fucking stuff. That shouldn't be too difficult for your fucking porn stars to achieve, what with their third-grade reading levels and lack of singing voices.

We could make a whole string of low-budget porn westerns. High Plaines Fucker; The Good, the Bad, and the Naughty; A Fist Full of Astroglide; For a Few Fists More….

You've heard of spaghetti westerns right? Well, this will be a string of spaghetti pornos.

I like where you guys are heading, but I feel like I should take this opportunity to clarify my role in this project. I want to get lost behind the camera; I want to see the movie come alive as I set up the lighting and position the camera. I don't want to get stuck thinking about what this or that character would do next, or where the story should go. I want to have only the loosest of connections to that aspect of the project, so make that area yours. I'm a passionate film lover, and I've taken some film classes. That's where I know how to work. I had a few ideas during school, but shooting porn for a living wasn't one of them.

Why not?

Yeah, you seem to have a pretty good thing going here.

I want to do real films, which is why I'm pushing for a real story in which the audience can identify with and pull for the characters. I want to do something that people will see and remember, something that will have people asking who did this. I need to make my art come alive.

All right. Edgar, look, we can't do singing and dancing and screwing. We can't get Carlo's hacks to do anything that requires theatrical talent. We're NOT going to make spaghetti pornos. So, what else do we have in the bag?

I'm half in the bag myself.

I'm in the other half.


In my experience, detective stories are gold mines. Mysteries too. These genres are reinvented every year. There's no reason why WE can't use an overdone medium and make it great.

So maybe like, Mike Hammer, ass detective?

Uhhhh. I'm a big fan of a Humphrey Bogart-type sleuth. Have you ever seen The Maltese Falcon?

Of course. Film noir wasn't a complete waste. I liked detectives when I was growing.

Listen. Carlo. Have you ever heard of this guy called Richard Mahler?

Yeah. I know who he is.

Now, I'm no porn expert… yet. But, I remember seeing a film of Mahler's when I was in grade school. It was one of the strangest things I've ever seen. It was among my first forays into the world of sex. The director's name stuck with me because I thought of him as the composer of sex. Mahler's work was even better than Debbie Does Dallas. We need our film to be better than the film that was better than Debbie Does Dallas.

Yeah, Mahler did a few films, his work was referred to as porn noir* by some low-level critics. He's your basic, run-of-the-mill smut peddler now.

What happened to porn noir?

It stunk.

That's part of it.

No Bumfuzzleds is what happened.


What if we blow past this asshole, take a piece of porn noir, Bumfuzzle the hell out of it…

I suppose that is the general direction I had in mind with this project.


Neo-porn noir.

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When Things Go Bad
by Carlo Rossi

Despite my best bullshit and widest grin, the wrap-up party for Cram 'em High had not gone well. Marty Young, one of my usual financial backers in Shaft Sinker Productions, had confirmed his suggestions from earlier in the week: he would not back The Maltese Cock, our first-ever attempt in the neo-porn noir genre.

He had nothing against my plans, but he had recently had a revelation. Marty was brought up Mormon, a descendant of Brigham. Now, after a life of debaucherousitousness and idleness, he had decided to give his money to the church and go on a two-year mission to Belize. As Marty termed it, "I need to get back to my roots." What the fuck has Belize go to do with your roots, I thought.

Compounding my troubles was the talk I needed to have with Chip Long, porn stalwart and belligerent drunk.

I walked over to Chip and suggested he get another drink before we talk about the upcoming project. It wouldn't take too much more to get him drunk; Chip is a midget, and usually by the third drink he's plastered. I suspected that he wouldn't be very pleased getting cast as the flaming German Nazi-type villain Herr Franz Stump in The Maltese Cock, so an inebriatory trick was the only way to convince him.

"Listen Carlo, just get to the fucking point. I have a full drink," Chip said as he scratched his mustache.

Christ, this was going to be tough. I offered Chip a Swisher Sweet, which he declined, and lit one for myself. Since he was always outspoken about his love for women, I hoped that he would be sex-crazed enough to take the part.

I took a deep breath and dove into my best salesman's pitch, talking excitedly and gesturing about my vision for this porn noir thriller, the brilliance of the Bumfuzzled Brothers' script and their artistic genius, and the profits that would make us all rich down the road.

Then I told him about his role. He wasn't happy. Then I added that he'd have to take a pay cut, or maybe accept some percentage of the profits after production and release. He growled like a pit bull and said, "How the fuck do you think I'm going to take care of my palimony and child support with a deal like that!?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he stormed off to the bathroom, but not before punching a hole through one of the walls of the film set.

Help arrived when Edgar and Rutger walked through the door of the studio. I waved them over. They were both wearing camel hair jackets, and Rutger was wearing green sweatpants as well.

"Hey Carlo, we got you a gift," said Edgar, pulling a magazine out of a paper bag. It was an issue of Nugget, possibly the most vile skin mag I'd ever seen. Edgar flipped quickly to the middle while Rutger talked wildly about an additional scene for Herr Stump. They showed me step-by-step pictures of some jackass getting a piercing through the head of his cock.

"We want a scene where the midget gets this done," said Rutger.

At that moment Chip walked back over to me again, complaining about the deal I was offering him. Before I had a chance to tell Rutger to shut it, he leaned down to Chip and said, "You're going to have this done during filming." Not the kind of help I was looking for from the boys.

"Who the fuck are these two?" asked Chip.

"These are the screenwriting prodigals, Edgar and Rutger Bumfuzzled."

Edgar and Rutger bowed while Chip took a closer look at the pictures. He turned back to me with hell in his eyes, then kicked Edgar in the shin and spit toward Rutger. I say toward Rutger, because Chip missed, or, rather, Rutger displayed some unexpected quickness and shifted his head slightly. The spit flew a few feet back and landed in the artichoke dip.

My brother Sal, whom I hate, was standing between the boys and the buffet table. This was a golden opportunity. Pointing to my brother I said, "Hey Chip! This guy wants you to get it done too."

Chip looked at my brother, who turned and smiled, unaware of the situation, and spit right in his face. Feeling this wasn't enough, he then kicked him in both shins. Sal seemed to fall in slow motion, but the whole way down he kept his eyes guided on me like a laser.

Chip turned to me and said, "Fuck you Rossi! Play a fag, take a pay cut, and get a strange piercing? You'll have better luck getting me to grow three feet than to take this role."

Chip stormed out, grabbing a bottle of vodka on the way, while Sal groaned on the floor. My girlfriend Callie walked over to Sal and asked him if he wanted another drink since his had toppled over during the fall. When I was twenty-five, living in squalidity and debt, Sal took the one thing that I had: my girlfriend. They got married and now have two ugly, rotten boys. I forget their names. We're still brothers but I hate his guts.

My cinematographer, Andre, yelled out, "It's not a party until somebody lies whimpering on the floor." Yes Andre, you're right. I was feeling a lot better now. Andre ran over to the stereo and turned up Jethro Tull, arguably the greatest band ever, because "Aqua Lung" was about to come on.

Edgar walked over with a heaping plate of food. "Who does your catering Carlo? Because this is fantastic! I haven't eaten in days. Want some of this artichoke dip?" Edgar gestured with a cracker piled high with the contaminated dip.

"No thanks," I said.

I looked around and said, "Where's your brother, around socializing?"

"Rutger doesn't socialize very well, but I'm sure he's someplace drinking. He hasn't had a drink in a few days, and you know how that goes."

Sal shuffled over to Edgar and me.

"Do you know what kind of a scumbag Carlo is?" Sal asked Edgar. "When we were kids he fucked my dog, Charlie."

"You've fucked a dog before," said Edgar in bewilderment.

"Don't listen to my eunuch brother, Edgar. I didn't fuck his dog. I simply rubbed Tabasco over his nutsack to make him run faster. We were training him to run in the dog races. He was going to be the first black lab to beat all those shitty greyhounds. Sal, I've told you for years that it was our neighbor, Steve Durkwitz, who fucked your dog. And more than once, I might add."

Rutger stumbled our way with a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and said to Sal, "Boy, you really got your ass kicked by that midget."

Before Sal could respond his cell phone rang. He limped away to conduct business while the Bumfuzzled Brothers shuffled off to raid the buffet table. I got stuck in a conversation with Mick Headburg, who was going to play our hero-detective, Dick Shaftsworthy, in the upcoming thriller. After a few nonsensical questions from Mick, which I acknowledged with silence, I was left alone.

I decided now would be a perfect moment to slip back to my office and huff some spray paint. We all have our weaknesses, and mine dates back to the sixth grade. I grabbed the brothers, telling them I had a surprise in my office.

Although the boys were veterans of alcohol use, they were total neophytes to the process of getting buzzed off of spray paint. I pulled out a paper bag and demonstrated; they followed suit and we were all smiles.

I explained to Edgar and Rutger that we needed to start a full-on assault of promoting our movie to the rest of the party, because the troubles with Marty and Chip were setting us back. We talked strategy and decided that we weren't showing our enthusiasm for our vision of porn noir. People needed to see our passion.

Like frenzied sharks, Rutger and Edgar charged out of the office ready to hype the movie and attack our party guests, while I stayed behind another minute and huffed more paint from the paper bag. Ah, paint fumes!

I raced back into the party, zigzagging past a number of guests to locate Fred Morris, another important backer for Shaft Sinker Productions. Fred was telling his my first experience in the porn business anecdote to Winnie and Minnie Johnson, twin blondes and ingénues of the porn world (although their work in Cram 'em High would lead one to think otherwise).

Fred usually got laid after telling this story, and it seemed things were progressing that way. But with a twinge of guilt I dragged him away—literally.

"What the fuck are you doing Rossi, and why do you have me in a headlock?"

"Listen Fred. Do you completely understand how brilliant my next film is going to be? We are going to raise porn noir to the next level and, in the process, make ourselves legends. They are going to speak of my camera work, lighting, and direction in the same breath as Hitchcock. And Edgar and Rutger's script is gripping, the way—"

"Carlo, I'm in for christsakes. Now what the hell is all—"

Before he could finish I went into a vivid description of the first scene, set in the desert with a storm coming in, and how I'd masterfully move the camera. Throughout my fevered lecture he gave me a quizzical look with his head turned to the side. Finally, I stopped and asked what the fuck the deal was.

"Did you give Callie a rim job a little while ago? You've got the ring of a stain all around your mouth."

Goddamnit. The spray paint must have coated the outside of my mouth. Oh well, the best thing to do was press on.

"Do you know where I can get a camel?"

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Let's Shoot The Cock
A short account of the first film shoot for The Maltese Cock
By Rutger Bumfuzzled

"Where's the cock at?" I yelled over the heads of the film crew.

"We're not even ready for it yet," said Carlo. "It takes time to set up these shots right."

"Still, the actors are ready and nobody can find it."

"I love you guys, but please… relax," Carlo said.

"That goddamn camel just spit at me," said Edgar.

We were at Carlo's warehouse studio setting up the first scene of our film, The Maltese Cock. Edgar was toying around with everyone and everything, I was half annoyed, and Carlo was lost in film stuff. The first segment was a clever scene that Edgar and I had written during a shut-in at our trashed apartment, which we refer to affectionately as the playground. After some rye toss-down and a little bit of the bareknuckle dance, we decided that the 16th-century jewel-inlayed dildo from Malta was to turn up at a dig site in some Middle-Eastern desert.

Carlo had cleverly arranged his studio to reflect this setting. He borrowed a camel from a private owner. It was a nasty, vile creature that Edgar and I wanted to kill. If we did give it death though, we would have to hand over the entire film budget. That's what Carlo reminded Edgar, who, at one point, had his knife pointed at the beast while yelling insults.

The environment of the set was a little freakish. Not only did we have a real array of film equipment and a decent-sized crew, but also a few guys working their phalluses to get ready for action, some naked women with large breasts, a couple of sinister guys from the Middle East, a little person called Chip Long, a bar set, and a camel. Edgar and I would write this crazy stuff mostly to amuse ourselves, and Carlo was able to make it materialize so much faster than we had ever done with any of our plays. It was really inspiring. Still, the whole cast and crew wore uneasy looks on their faces, and within the studio walls there was a great tension. I felt like it had to do with venturing into the unknown.

The uneasy feeling continued right up until the point when little Chip tripped and fell over a pile of the camel's shit. After that we all had a good laugh, loosened up, and got down to work.

The scene came together famously and, of course, became the first captured piece of neo-porn noir ever. Edgar and I contributed the plot and scene direction, and Carlo worked his magic on the film art and the shaft sinking, just as we had agreed in the meetings.

We were shooting the scene immediately after the initial discovery of the cock in the desert. This was difficult because the magic relic was to change hands often and in a series of quick sequences. Every frame was miraculously iced with a lot of surprise fornication showing Chip Long, some sexy archaeologists, the Middle-Eastern guys, and, once, even the camel (but that's bonus footage now). There was magic in the constant action and commotion. The audience was to be sexually aroused and, at the same time, on the edge of their seats. Everybody in the film wanted a piece of that Maltese Cock. Hopefully, the viewers would crave it too.

At first, I was at odds with how Carlo went about the actual filming of the scenes. It seemed to me that his angles were not fully capturing some of the best bang and fist pornography I had ever seen. Later, I was hipped to exactly what he had in mind. The smut was secondary really. Carlo was capturing the overlooked artistry brought forth by these crazy antics. He was focusing on capturing the visual art within the context of a tabooed medium.

Carlo Rossi was brilliant.

While Edgar went off to use the bathroom, I rigged his chair to collapse. Later on, when I was on the set talking to Carlo, a sound like a golf swing severing a watermelon silenced the room. One of the extras had sat in Edgar's chair. He was now lying on the floor with a small pool of blood around his head. "That was meant for you," I told Edgar.

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Don't Shit Where You Eat
by Edgar Bumfuzzled

I was immersed in script revisions for a crucial orgy near the end of The Maltese Cock, when the phone rang.

"Get down here right away and remove your ignorant, drunk brother from the set before I have his fucking balls cut off!" screamed an obviously agitated Carlo Rossi into the phone. "He's ruining my fucking movie!" Before I could make any inquiries the line went dead.

Fucking Rutger.

I quickly collected myself, jumped in a cab, and headed over to the set of The Maltese Cock. Rossi was waiting for me outside when I arrived. As I opened the taxi door he was immediately hollering at me.

"He's gone TOO FUCKING FAR this time, Edgar. HE'S FREAKING EVERYONE OUT! I'm going to have to FUCKING KILL HIM if you don't have him off my set in FIVE MINUTES! I'LL FUCKING HAVE HIM ARRESTED!"

I mumbled that I would take care of it and followed Carlo into the studio. Right as I entered I could hear Rutger yelling wildly.


I found my brother. He was standing atop a buffet table with his pants down around his ankles, waving a carving knife at the assemblage of cast (most of whom seemed to be wearing white, terrycloth robes) and crew, all of whom were viewing this spectacle from the relatively safe distance of about 20 feet.

"YER ALL J'ST A BUNCH A' GODDAMN SAVAGES!" Rutger yelled, his voice obviously thick with drink. "WELL I'M GONNA TEACH ALLA' YA SAVAGES A GODDAMN LESSON!"

"He's threatening to take a crap on the table," I heard Rossi tell me as I looked on, baffled. And, sure enough, there was my big brother, Rutger, assuming a bent-over half-squat position, posturing like he was about to shit on the table.

"RUTGER!" I barked out.

He stopped and looked over at me, startled, teetering slightly in his pose. I walked toward him cautiously.

"What's going on here, Rutger?"

"Fucking SHEEE-IT!" he shot back at me, smiling broadly. I was close enough to smell the alcohol heavy on his breath. He was squatting amongst the leftover sandwiches and pizza that covered the buffet table. His pants were still down around his ankles and he was still holding the knife.

"Rutger, what the fuck is going on here?" I asked him again.

His brow furrowed and he gave me an irritated look. "These people r' FUGGING SAVAGES, Edgar. I found a PUBIC HAIR on my fugging ROAST BEEF SANDW'CH!" His teetering increased as he yelled from his squatting position.

"A pubic hair?"


I was incredulous.

"It's a fucking porn shoot, Rutger. Everybody's naked. Pubic hairs are bound to fall where they may. NOW GET THE FUCK DOWN FROM THERE, YOU DISGUSTING, DRUNK CRYBABY!"

He shook his head at me and scowled. "FUCK YOU, ya TRAITOR!" Then he stood up straight and wobbly to address me and everyone else in the room. "I'M GONNA' TAKE A CRAP RIGHT ON THIS TABLE N' IT'S GONNA BE ABS'LUTELY MAGNIF'CENT!"

He paused for a moment to let this sink in. Then, in a softer voice, so only I could hear: "It's theater, Edgar. It's a performance piece." Then, loudly again, for everyone: "I'M GONNA SHOW Y'ALL WHAT IT FEELS LIKE t' BE 'ROUND a FUGGING SAVAGE!"

It's a performance piece of shit, I thought to myself. He looked so ridiculous standing there on the table with his pants down around his ankles, his arms outstretched, his flaccid member dangling in the wind for all to see, that I couldn't help but to let out a devilish little chuckle.

But I wasn't about to let Rutger take a shit on the table. That was too much.

He was towering over me with the knife in his hand, drunk as hell, grinning triumphantly. I weighed my options carefully. Then, acting quickly and decisively, I took what seemed to be the most prudent course of action available to me at the time.

I cock-punched him.

The contact of the blow made a loud thwack sound. The room went absolutely silent. Rutger looked down at me with a shocked, hurt expression on his face. He dropped the knife, which clanged home loudly on the buffet table. Then he grabbed for his injured crotch, his knees buckled, and he collapsed off the table on top of me.

And as we fell, with my idiot, half-naked brother pulling me down, I cracked my head on the ground and lost consciousness.

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Love, Loss, and Disgust Between Blackouts
by Edgar Bumfuzzled (yes, again, goddamnit!)

While I was out I dreamed Rutger and I took his public shitting spectacle to Broadway. The curtain rose and Rutger walked out onto the empty stage in a tuxedo. He stood absolutely still in the spotlight. Then he dropped his pants, squatted down, and squeezed out an enormous crap right there on stage. The audience sat enthralled, loving every moment. When Rutger was done he wiped his ass, left the stage to thunderous applause, and the house lights came up for the intermission.

During intermission all the New York patrons gushed over how mush they loved the show as they sipped tall glasses of red wine. They all seemed to agree that they really "got it." One woman said she thought it was the best thing that had ever been on stage.

After the intermission, the curtain rose and I walked out onto the empty stage in a tuxedo. I stood absolutely still in the spotlight….

When I came to I was lying on the floor flat on my back. My head was pounding. I blinked my eyes open and tried to focus. From the blur between unconsciousness and awakening a form began to take shape. Gradually, the soft edges faded away, and I found myself looking up into the face of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life.

I gazed up speechless. She looked down at me and smiled. Everything else in the world was suddenly of secondary importance to that smile.

"Are you alright?" that lovely face asked me.

I was still too stunned to speak. Her hand was on my chest.

"You hit your head when you fell," she told me in a clear, calm voice. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was ravishing. I just stared into that face and lay as still as I could, afraid that any movement on my part might send this apparition away.

She had violet eyes.

"Do you need a doctor or something?" Her hand was still resting gently on my chest. Those miraculous violet eyes were full of warmth and concern.

It took a few moments for it to register that she was asking me a question to which I was expected to supply a response. Did I need a doctor? No. I was made of tougher stuff than that. I'm Edgar Bumfuzzled, for christsakes. I'm prone to slip in and out of consciousness from time to time. No need for doctors.

I shook my head to let this dazzling beauty know exactly what type of man it was she was dealing with here. I didn't need a stinking doctor. But immediately upon moving my head from side to side I regretted doing so. There was a sharp pain from the back of my skull and my whole head ached enormously. That pain prodded me further into lucidity, and in a rush I remembered what had occurred to land me on the floor with this awful pain.

"Where's Rutger?" was the first thing that I said to this angel. She graced me with another smile, even chuckled slightly, and motioned with her head to the side. Her hand left my chest.

"He's over there. He hasn't moved or made a sound." She shook her head and pursed her lips. "He's just curled up in a ball."

Painfully, I turned my head to try to catch a glimpse of my brother. As I did Carlo Rossi stepped into my field of view.

"How's he doing, Susie?"

"I think he's alright," said my darling beauty with the violet eyes. Susie. Then she turned away from me and looked up at Rossi. "He's awake now. He just asked about his brother."

Carlo snorted out a short, sharp laugh. "He's gonna be sore for a couple of days, but he'll pull through. We're moving him off the set right now." Even as Carlo was saying this two men came into sight laboring to carry my drunk, incapacitated older brother into the wings. "Are we gonna have to carry both brothers off or can you walk?" Carlo asked me.

God… I didn't want to get up. I just wanted to lay there and stare up at this beautiful Susie with the violet eyes and have her nurse me back to health. But I wasn't about to be carried off like some animal. "I can get up," I said weakly.

Carlo extended an arm to help hoist me from the ground. I grabbed it and pulled myself up dizzily, stumbling around to catch my balance. As I stood there, trying to get my legs back under me and to stop the awful spinning inside my skull, Carlo turned to my beloved Susie and said, "Why don't you go ahead and start getting ready for your scene, Susie."

Bastard! He was tearing us apart already.

She looked at Carlo and nodded. Then she looked back to me, her dark hair and violet eyes set out magnificently from the white terrycloth robe she wore closed tightly to her neck. Susie smiled one last glowing, magical smile, then turned and walked away.

I was absolutely beside myself.

Carlo began speaking to me, saying something about how "time is money" and ushering me off in the direction they had carried Rutger. I cut him off abruptly.

"Who was that woman?" I demanded.

Carlo stopped. "Who, Susie?"


He looked at me curiously. "That's Susie Sapphire. She's playing May Foxx, the street-smart-talking secretary for our hard-boiled private detective, Dick Shaftsworthy."

"You mean she's an actress in THIS fucking movie!?!?"

"Yessirr. She's a hot one, ain't she?"

This information seemed to make the dizziness and the pain in my head increase exponentially. My dear, sweet Susie was a porn starlet. She was going to get fucked by some towering, horse-cocked porn stud right here, today. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. "What scene are you about to shoot?"

"We're doing the first threesome with Detective Shaftsworthy, Susie, and our femme fatale, Miss Rebecca West." Carlo paused, then added, amused, "Those two girls are gonna' get railed today."

I recalled what scene it was that Carlo was referring to and I thought, for a moment, that I might throw up. Then I remembered other scenes that Rutger and I had already written for the sassy secretary, May Foxx, and I sincerely thought I might pass out again. Awful, disgusting things were going to happen to that spunky little secretary. Horrible, degrading acts of perversity. There was even one particularly filthy bit with a midget.

I stumbled down a corridor following Carlo, my mind in a fog. Susie, poor, dear Susie… Carlo was saying something about the lighting for this upcoming spectacle, but I wasn't paying attention. He led me through a doorway into an office, talking at me the whole time. As we entered the office I discovered my brother, Rutger, curled up in the fetal position on a large red pleather couch. He made no greeting or other movement as we walked in the room. He just lay there under an old wool blanket, eyes wide open and straight ahead, completely silent.

"So. Here we are," said Carlo. "Why don't you boys take a moment to gather yourselves together, then call a cab and get out of here. We've got a lot of shooting to do today and we're way behind schedule now, so I'm gonna get back to it." With that, Carlo turned and began to exit the office.

"WAIT!" I yelled after him desperately.

He turned around, annoyed. "WHAT?"

I was nearly in a panic. How could I let this evil bastard defile my lovely Susie in such sordid and horrible ways? I had to do something.

"I don't think you should shoot that scene yet," I blurted out.

Carlo rolled his eyes. "WHY IN THE HELL NOT?"

"I think it still needs some work. It's not right yet."

"The scene is fine, Edgar."

"No, really. I don't think you should shoot that scene yet. Give us a couple more days to work on it."

"A COUPLE MORE DAYS?!?! FUCK YOU, EDGAR! We're already WAY BEHIND SCHEDULE, and we're losing money faster than I can count. Right now I'm paying a bunch of actors and crew to FUCKING STAND AROUND while I talk to you." Carlo turned suddenly and stormed out of the room before I could get another word out.

I collapsed into the matching red pleather armchair next to the couch that bore Rutger, who still seemed caught in a catatonic stupor. I felt defeated. I held my pounding head in my hands and my fingers found the enormous knot where my skull had hit the floor. I glanced over at my brother, who was now drooling all over himself and the fine piece of leisure furniture upon which he rested.

"This is all your fucking fault, Rutger, you piece of shit," I told him in a small voice. Predictably, he made no reply.

My dear, sweet Susie was probably getting lubed up even as I sat there, preparing her lovely young body for Mr. Horsecock Shaftsworthy and the rest of the perversions we had in store for her.

I couldn't bear to think of it.

I stood up, trembling, and began pacing the room. Rutger drooled. "Who does that fucking Rossi think he is anyhow?" I asked aloud. "That goddamn pimp director." There was no way I was going to stand for this sort of treatment. Absolutely not.

After I had built myself up into a suitably towering rage and paranoia, I burst out of that office full of indignation and questionable intentions. I was going to rescue my Susie from the evil, dirty hands of that goddamn Carlo Rossi and the rest of those deviants no matter what the cost. That was a goddamn fact.

As I went careening down the corridor through which Carlo had led me earlier, my mind was racing with possible ways to pull off this little maneuver. I took some measure of solace in the fact that if all else failed I could always mount the buffet table and threaten to take a shit. And they wouldn't even be able to call Rutger in to come and get me.

All this bravado vanished the moment I stepped on the set and saw my Susie. She was under the lights with another woman, a blond - Rebecca West, the heroine of the film. Neither woman had on a stitch of clothes. They were in each other's arms, engaged in a deep, erotic kiss.

Susie's naked body shone luminous, the powerful film lights turning her already fair skin to milk-white marble. She was supple and lean, athletic, toned, and taunt. In every movement she made, no matter how subtle or small, she displayed an almost ethereal grace that made me want to drop down to my knees and weep with joy for having witnessed the miracle.

She was kissing Rebecca's breasts now.

Rebecca was more the prototypical porn star. When I first saw Susie, I had no idea whatsoever she was in the porn industry (although, granted, I was just waking up after having been knocked unconscious by the hijinx of my older brother). Rebecca, on the other hand, reeked of porn. She was that ridiculous blond and had enormous fake tits, a tiny waist, and drawn-on eyebrows. You could just tell she'd been fucked a lot. But with all that sex-on-film experience came a great dramatic instinct for the genre. She was brilliant, moaning and purring on cue, shuddering with little spasms of pleasure and tiny gasps of delight.

Susie moved her kisses lower, kneeling down in front of Rebecca, who ran her hands lovingly through Susie's fine dark hair. Rebecca's fingernails were long and red.

The set was completely silent except for the girls' murmurs of pleasure and the soft hum of the film equipment. No member of the crew made a sound. Carlo Rossi sat forward in his chair transferring his intense gaze back and forth from his actors to the image the camera was capturing, displayed on a monitor in front of him.

Rebecca melted to the floor, lying on her back in ecstasy. Susie was leaning forward on her knees and forearms, her face buried between Rebecca's thighs. Rebecca's back arched and she let out a gasp, her whole body shivering with excitement.

I was reeling. I still felt shaky from the earlier blow to the head, and now I was absolutely in a spell. It was a surreal scene, with the lights, the girls, the hot naked lesbian loving, and everybody watching in reverent silence. It was like a blurry, sexy dream.

Then, suddenly, Detective Shaftsworthy stealthily entered the shot. He was dressed in a circa-1930s wrinkled suit with his tie knotted loosely around the shirt collar. His hat was tipped down slightly over his eyes and his face was covered with several days' stubble.

He walked up quietly behind Susie (who was still busily pleasuring Rebecca), his hands deftly removing and discarding his necktie along the way. He stopped, tipped his hat back, then folded his arms and narrowed his eyes to size up the situation. Finally, Detective Shaftsworthy undid his fly and took out his crazy fucking horsecock.

Susie threw her head back and let out a squeal of delight as our well-endowed private detective mounted and entered her from behind. She smiled wide and moaned, then went back to work on Rebecca. Shaftsworthy was still wearing his fucking suit and hat as he enthusiastically thrust to and fro.

My heart was breaking with every thrust of that magnificent cock.

I turned away and staggered off down the corridor that led back to the office where I had left Rutger. I felt sick to my stomach. My head definitely wasn't right; I'd broken out into a cold, clammy sweat. And as I labored to make my retreat, the increasingly passionate moans and screams of Susie and the rest only added to my torture.

When I finally made it back to the office and pulled the door open, I could tell right away something was terribly wrong. It smelled like something had died, like the dumpster outside a Chinese restaurant in the middle of July. I took two steps into the room and stopped, swaying slightly where I stood. The smell was awful. I gagged, and covered my mouth with my arm. Feeling dizzy and extremely nauseous, my head pounding and my eyes watering, I looked around the room.

Rutger was gone. On the red pleather couch where he'd been lying catatonic earlier there was nothing but the old wool blanket that had been covering him.

I took a few steps toward the couch and stopped. The strength of the offending odor increased. I took another step and the odor became even more unbearable. I cautiously reached down with the arm that wasn't protecting my mouth and nose, and pulled back the blanket.

It was horrible.

The portion of the couch that had been hidden by the blanket was covered in the foul, awful excrement of some unhealthy, unsanitary beast.


I vomited and passed out next to the shitty red pleather couch.

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Thus ends the first part of Neo-Porn Noir. Look for the further adventures of Carlo Rossi and the Bumfuzzled Brothers in upcoming issues of this electronic quarterly.

*Porn noir: A type of pornographic crime film featuring cynical malevolent characters engaged in sleazy erotic behavior intended to cause sexual excitement with an ominous atmosphere that is conveyed by shadowy sexy photography and foreboding sexy background music.

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Copyright©2002 by The Bumfuzzled Brothers and Carlo Rossi.

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