DECKER: Episode Two (An Adaptation)
Last week began my first foray into the world of adaptation with Tim Heidecker’s masterpiece of action-comedy, DECKER. This week, I present the second installment, a fictionalized adaptation of episode two. Things heat up when the pressure is cranked. Check it out and thank you for reading.
And now, I present to you:
DECKER: Episode Two (An Adaptation)
A Blackhawk cuts freedom trails of wind out over the Atlantic while a briefcase sits on the lap of Decker, our black-blazered American hero. His fingers drum the case as if purring it to keep calm for just a little longer. He shuts his eyes, entranced by the whirr of the chopper’s beat. And like a gunshot sandblasting the Afghanistan desert, his CIA-trained mind drifts, memory fisting him elbow-deep into a field of white flowers: a top secret burden of pleasure, or a flicker of the past. He breathes, stirs the image to blossom.
Decker sees himself pluck one of those white flowers. A half-smile widens his mouth, allows just a moment to enjoy the rich complexity of life’s wonder. He sniffs. It’s the smell of back-alley dive bars with a Louisville Slugger after dark in a rotten part of Pittsburgh. It’s a scent Decker wishes he could forget. He inhales once more, to be sure of this poisonous fact. “Shit,” he says. “Taliban has started growing poppy seed again, which is the worst, because that’s for heroin.” He studies the flower’s intricate folds, the mysteries it holds. “That’s going to fund terrorist operations.” He takes one final smell. Decker feels duty mount. The poppy field extends for miles, unchecked. “Gotta destroy all this heroin.”
Like an eighteen wheeler clogging the piss trough, Decker stomps with American justice, crushing poppy after poppy to pulp under his boots. The more he flattens the budding drug, the more his teeth clench. If only, he thinks, our limp sock of a president would react with vigor, with strength, with the muffler-chug of a hog. But he won’t. And Decker has been muck deep in this desert swamp too many times to forget the only painful lesson a warrior must never let go of: there is no “we,” it’s only mono e mono in the fight for freedom.
He jerks awake. The poppy crushing fades as the chopper lands. He clears his eyes to salute a marching line of American troops who wait to greet him. It’s morning and stepping back onto Washington soil gives Decker relief. He nods to the air force pilot, clutches the briefcase tighter in his grip. If they only knew. His eyes narrow, lips curl to a sneer. He walks off. Alone.
We drift to late afternoon, zero four hundred, military hours. Time for a chat. Everything is in order and the president awaits. Another chance to lay the goods on the old politician, whether his frumpy suit likes it or not. And compliance will not be an issue. Decker’s been in tight spots before, spots tighter than a Kawasaki roof jump in Morocco. This’ll be a breeze.
Decker heads straight up to the White House main entrance, but is suddenly ambushed by a horde of protestors. It’s as if they were waiting for him. They chant, “Hey, hey, go away, treat those Arabs fair.” Sloppy hand-painted signs swoop, almost clip Decker in the jaw. He keeps his stride, takes in one sign in particular that says, “Keep USA Free.” You can bet your ass on it. But the mob looms, encroaches, crowds around him. “Hey,” Decker says, “hey, get out of my way.” He pushes past a zipper lips in a fake cowboy hat. ” I don’t have time for this.” He shoves an overweight grandpa in a ball cap, tips that hat off his head, says, “Why don’t you guys get a job?” And with that, Decker’s in. Clear security, brush off the men in black with a flick of his neck, a twist of his wrist. They’ve been briefed. They know the drill. Don’t ask.
Old hands tremble around a black telephone. A sweaty forehead wrinkled in panic, worn down with false promises and pressure. The president presses the phone harder to his ear says, “W-what do the polls say?”
With the force of a storm, the door to his office bursts open. A naked-eyed Decker strides in, briefcase in hand. The president quickly cuts the line, slaps the phone down. “Decker,” the president says, flustered, “that was fast.”
Decker, quiet as a lone poppy in the breeze, pulls a chair across from the president, takes a seat without asking. “I had a little help from the United States air force, some of the bravest men and women in America.” Decker slides the briefcase onto the table. “Unfortunately, I wish you understood how to support the troops.”
“Uh, what’s in the briefcase?” the president says.
“That’s the plan to destroy America,” Decker says.
“Well, let’s open it up, read the details so we can, uh, stop this madness.”
“I can’t,” Decker says. “There’s a three digit code preventing me from opening it. If I open it, it’s gonna blow.”
Tension blasts the room. The president’s palms clam up, his mouth frozen. He licks his lips. “Decker, you’re the strongest man that I know of.” A flash of intensity, impatience, and then he asks the fatal question: “Why don’t you just rip it open?”
Decker chuckles, three steps ahead and thirty miles over the speed limit. “Don’t you think I would have done that by now?” he says, squints. “Now, this is rigged to blow. Get it? If I try to pry that open it’s gonna blow up the White House. Now, I don’t mind falling on the sword for my country and I sure as hell wouldn’t mind seeing you go, but there is no way that I’m going to blow up two hundred years of American history by blowing up the White House, not to mention the founding fathers.”
And this pounds the old president like the motherload. “How do we break the code?” he says, that sweat spreading to his neck, running down his red tie.
“I’ll need access to your top secret FBI agent,” Decker says, “or CIA agent, whoever—for code breaking.”
The president’s eyes narrow. He looks away, scoots forward in his seat. “It’s top secret.”
“Goddammit, you asshole,” Decker says, calling his bluff, a bullet of truth wetting his lips. He stands, black blazer fluttering like a cape. “Do you want to save this country, or not?”
The president opens his wet hands, wiggles those chubby fingers in front of Decker. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry, Decker, but my hands are tied.”
Decker rounds the table to the president’s side. In the whip of a Wyoming second, Decker’s rage froths: the mushroom cloud, the flaming cities of freedom, the bullets ripping throats, striking hard-working American families in their sleep. This must end. “Alright, we’re gonna be doing this the hard way then.” Whoosh! Decker whips his pistol from inside his blazer, jams it to the president’s head, barrel first. “You want your brains splattered on the desk or are you gonna call that CIA guy?”
The president’s heart flutters, skips a beat like hot piss pattering a dog bowl.
“Access, Mr. President,” Decker says as he clicks off the safety. “Now!”
To Be Continued…
