The Chicken Feed

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Casino Royale is not a James Bond film. It has a character in it named “James” (which is a fairly common name) and his last name happens to be “Bond”, which I suppose is some coincidence, but that’s pretty-much where the similarity ends. This bold new reboot of the Bond mythos has foregone campy humor, funky gadgets and delicious innuendo in favor of a brooding, bloody-fisted spy with a fractured psyche. In this manner, Casino Royale has taken the admirable step away from self-parody and toward direct thievery of the Jason Bourne franchise.

But fear not. Apparently this is what the public wants. At no time was I more attuned to this blood-curdling fact than when Harry Knowles, Demon Emperor of Ain’t It Cool News got a whiff of the Variety story (AICN shuns the term Variety, preferring to instead refer to the trade paper as “one of our top LA operatives”) claiming Eddie Murphy was going to attempt raping a dead horse and do another Beverly Hills Cop movie.

Knowles, a beacon (I accidentally typed ‘bacon’ at first) in the tundra of “geek culture” responded to this news with the following fucked up shit:

“After watching Eddie’s performance in DREAMGIRLS – I can say, without hesitation that this could be a brilliant career move. Make Foley a badass, burnt out – possibly retired – having to face down one last investigation… Making the action hurt, making Murphy foul again. And don’t bring back Serge. Kill Billy in the opening sequence and start from there.”

Is there any comprehension up there of what the Beverly Hills Cop series is actually supposed to be about? I’m beginning to suspect that if people like this had their way, every cop, secret agent, and social worker character in every franchise would inevitably turn into Max Payne. In lieu of the imminence of such a dystopian hell, I have crafted what one might call a forecast. A grim warning of things to come, if we don’t take action and place improvised explosives on the rails used by the Hollywood supply-trains. In other words…


by Andrey Summers


A man is having the crap kicked out of him, face smashed with a lead fire-place poker. It is the most hardcore random beating ever filmed, and we have no idea what’s going on.

Please, no. Please, don’t kill me I’m begging you, oh god.

(smashing the man’s face with the poker)
Sorry, chum. My mind is cold, and calculating. I don’t feel the sympathy you seek.

(spitting up teeth)
But…I have kids.

And they will find your death… elementary.

Holmes places his foot on the man’s throat and uses the poker as a golf-club to viciously bat the man’s head clean off his shoulders. It bounces down the alley where some cats begin to play with it. Holmes stares down at the body, brooding and being melancholy.

To be the world’s greatest detective… you have to be the world’s greatest murderer.


Holmes is doing push-ups as Doctor Watson berates him.

Dammit, Holmes, you can’t just go around killing people. Even if they deserve it! You’re a loose cannon!

Maybe if Scotland Yard did more of the heavy lifting, Watson, I wouldn’t be stuck picking up the slack.

Slack is right!

(toweling off)

Do you remember Watson the case of the man who disappeared from his room and nobody knew where he was, but I tapped on the wall, figured out it was hollow and then we set the room on fire, and he jumped in through the wall, it turns out he was living in a secret room the whole time, remember that case?

What of it?

I didn’t have to kill him. For once. And every day that thought is a rainbow.

A rainbow in the nightmare.

They hug, tightly. Heterosexually. A manly tear rolls down Holmes’ cheek, as he gazes out the window at a masturbating vagrant.

There but for the grace of god go I.


INSPECTOR LASTRADT is at her desk. She is a spunky young executive not afraid to use her sexual magnetism to get ahead in life. She’ll get ahead even if she has to GIVE it first AYOOO.

Who does a girl have to screw to get a little sex around here?


Words by Andrey Summers.
Title art by Andy “Klobber” Webb.

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