For those who thought that "Nightmare at Skywalker Ranch" left so many questions unanswered, welcome to the sequel. Standard fanfic disclaimers-unendorsed, unauthorized, we own none of this, insert excessive fawning over The George here, no money for us, yadda yadda yadda.
Jedi Cool and Randy G. present:
"THE MAKING OF EPISODE 2", EPISODE 2: BAD FEELING
1.
As Ewan McGregor--Idol of Millions, named "The Sexiest Man Alive" for the third year running by All Things Scottish magazine--lay motionless and broken in the snow-blanketed ravine, his poor motorcycle upended a mere fifteen feet away, only one thought occurred to him before he lapsed into unconsciousness: Well, America's little nancy-boy helmet laws sure didn't help ME any, now did they?
A mere two hours ago, he had been all cozy and warm within the hospitable confines of a Skywalker Ranch guest cottage, doing what a Big Name Star of his caliber would be expected to do--calling his wife on the phone several time zones away and whining about how much he hated what he was doing.
"Ah cannae b'lieve Lucas talked muh intae signin' up fer th' whole bloody trilogy. I've even got th' bloody script roit here in muh hand, an' I still cannae b'lieve it! Why dinnae ye talk some sense into muh head?"
"Don' you start wiz MEE!" she defended in her own cringingly-stereotyped-for-literary-license-purposes French accent. "Sacre Bleu! I TRIED! But all YOU could zink about was, 'Zut Alors! Uncle DenEES, he looked tres cool as le action figYAHR! I want to be zis action figYAHR, too!' You made your OWN bed, now YOU weel lie in eet! Besides, mama wants le DVD player. Geeve Monsieur George a keess for us, oui?" And with that, the missus unhelpfully hung up. It was the first conversation he'd ever had with her that didn't somehow work in a cheap crack about either Jerry Lewis or surrendering. It bothered him deeply on many levels.
Nevertheless, there he was, Ewan McGregor, Contractually Captive Idol of Millions. George had asked him to come out to the Ranch for a couple of days so the costume designers could take some new measurements--the "Episode I" income had made for a remarkably noticeable improvement in Ewan's diet-and some of the computer guys claimed to want to use him as a guinea pig in testing some newly upgraded motion capture equipment. Ewan knew the computer guys were just looking for an excuse to see him so they could get his autograph and ask him more lame questions like, "What's Cameron Diaz really like?" But Ewan tried to honor any request that came from Lucasfilm-one refusal to the wrong person, and George would cut his screen time in Episode 2 down to two minutes or less. And as an Officially Certified Idol of Millions, that was something that Ewan could not let happen.
So Lucas' request had led to his stay at the cottage, which had led to his petty griping, which had led to his tiff with the ol' ball-n-chain, which had inspired him to take a nice, relaxing motorcycle drive to clear his head.
Leave it to the man who played Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Unluckiest Jedi in History, to go for a nice, relaxing motorcycle drive right in the middle of California's first inexplicable freak snowstorm of the year. And standing upright on the seat without holding onto anything with his hands surely didn't help any when he came up on the icy 120-degree hairpin turn that sent him and his precious motorcycle off the road and into the snow-filled ravine in which his broken figure now lay insensate.
Not long after his lights went out, a lone figure emerged from the snowy scenery, gathered up the partly shattered Idol of Millions into its arms, and grunted and groaned as it lugged his not-quite-dead weight away from the scene of the accident.
Meanwhile, the CD in his upturned motorcycle's radio played on, still repeating the same song endlessly…
"…someday you will fiiind me, caught beneath the laaandsliii-ide…"
2.
"AAAHH! MY OBI-WAN IS AWOL! AAAHH!"
George Lucas was pacing back and forth behind his office desk. Rick McCallum, George's own answer to Andy Richter, was seated in front of Lucas' desk, flying a toy X-Wing Fighter through the air in front of him and making embarrassingly loud engine sounds.
"George, would you relax already? NEEEERROOOOOWWWWMM! I told you, we have contingencies for every possible disaster that could conceivably happen. VROOOOOOOOMMM."
"But what am I going to DO, Rick? Ewan's been gone for three days. I think he's gone and quit on us! Now Episode 2's gonna suck!"
"George, for the last time, it is NOT going to 'suck'. WHHOOOOOSSHH! I've already got people on the situation. Nobody needs to overreact. ENH-ENH-ENH-ENH-ENH! EAT LASER, VADER!"
"I'M NOT OVERREACTING!" Lucas screamed at the top of his lungs, so forcefully loud that McCallum stopped playing with the X-Wing for a second and began to sniffle, his eyes watering.
George suddenly realized what a heel he was being to his loyal executive producer. "Aw, I'm sorry. Come here, Rick…" George came around to Rick's side of the desk and gave him a great big reassuring hug.
Rick sniffled loudly, then replied somewhat confidently, "That's okay, George, I know you didn't really mean to yell. But I told you, I've got a plan. No overreacting at all."
"What's your plan?"
"Assume that Ewan's been shot and killed by a roving band of wild paparazzi, and begin recasting Obi-Wan for Episode 2."
Before George could slap some sense into Rick, George's secretary, Anne, poked her head in the door. "George, Ewan's mom is on line three. She's demanding to know what we did to her son."
Without hesitation, George answered, "Tell her we're all in Tunisia. That excuse never fails."
3.
Ewan awoke some time later, finding himself in a strange bed, both legs immobilized with crude splints. He appeared to be in some sort of log cabin. However, he could barely make out the logs which comprised the cabin, because nearly every square inch of wall and ceiling was covered in pictures…of both himself and Sir Alec Guinness. And every photo and drawing showcased each respective actor in full Obi-Wan Kenobi regalia.
Next to the room's lone doorway stood a small wooden desk with a bright blue iMac perched atop it. Its screen saver flashed random pictures of Lucas' popular yet doomed character, with a message across the bottom of the monitor, "MAY THE FORCE BE WITH ME", remaining the only constant onscreen image.
The room also had several shelves stacked with what appeared to be every single piece of Obi-Wan merchandise, authorized or not--every manufactured-Obi-Wan action figure, Obi-Wan dolls, Obi-Wan busts, Obi-Wan decorative figurines, Obi-Wan Christmas ornaments, Obi-Wan household appliances, Obi-Wan this, Obi-Wan that, Obi-Wan everything. And on one bookshelf were two autographed photos of Sir Alec Guinness. Ewan could make out each inscription: "YOU'LL REGRET VIOLATING THE RESTRAINING ORDER. BURN, YOU FOOL, BURN, SIGNED, SIR ALEC GUINNESS" and "I INSIST I AM NOT GUINNESS, BUT I'M SIGNING THIS SO YOU'LL GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, SIGNED, SIR RICHARD ATTENBOROUGH."
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"
That's when Ewan noticed the strange little man sitting next to the bed. He was short, thin, wore glasses, and had his dark brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. He also appeared to have a long braid that hung down from the right side of his head onto a familiar-looking brown robe. Didnae I see guys like this in the "Counting down to Episode I" line in New York? Ewan thought. Instead of vocalizing a potentially ungrateful thought--as was the style his fans and groupies had come to expect from him, their Very Own Bona Fide Idol of Millions--for once in his life Ewan chose to contain himself and whispered, "Who are ye?"
"My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi!" pronounced the young man, bringing his entire 110 lb frame to full stature.
Ewan did as best a bedridden double take as he could manage. "Whoa, there, boyo. Are ye daft? There be no such person. I oughttae know; I played th' bloke!"
"No, really! My name IS Obi-Wan Kenobi," insisted the young man. "I had my name legally changed three years ago after my parents kicked me out of the house and I got fired from my job for staging laser battles with the Big Mac sauce dispensers."
Ewan found his cigarettes and lighter lying on the nightstand next to the bed. He took a cig out, lit it, and puffed away with relief. For once in his life, the outspoken actor decided to shut up and just humor the guy. "Uh, roit, then. As int'restin' as that may be, can ye tell muh wot brought muh t' be yuir guest?"
The man rechristened Obi-Wan explained serenely, in the same manner a normal person would describe a typical boring day, "Well, I felt a disturbance in the Force, so I went for a walk and saw your motorcycle crash. I dragged you from the scene of the accident and bandaged you up."
"Well, I thank ye for not snappin' muh spine or anythin'. When do I get to visit a proper hospital?" asked Ewan shakily, unwittingly letting a bit of natural irritation slip through.
Not that Obi-Wan noticed. "Hospital? Jedi need no hospitals or doctors. Jedi go into a healing trance and take care of themselves. That's what you've been doing, goofy! I read it in this book…"
Ewan rolled his eyes and, fully aware of the potential futility of what he was about to say, said anyway, "Listen very closely, mate. I. Am. Not. A. Jedi. I'm just a regular bloke. I cannae heal m'self, so if ye would be so kind as t' call th' hospital, I'd appreciate it. I'm feelin' fairly banged-up roit now."
Obi-Wan grimaced. "You know, for a Jedi, you're being awfully ungrateful and insensitive. I know what I'm doing, and I say you'll be fine. Just watch!"
"Watch what?" Ewan asked, dreading the response as he saw Obi-Wan strained to pull out from underneath the bed a large aluminum baseball bat. The handle of the bat had been sawed off and replaced with a toy plastic Star Wars Lightsaber handle. The remainder of the bat had been painted a bright blue. Using both scrawny arms, Obi-Wan brought it up over his head and balanced it precariously for a moment.
"Why, watch as your Jedi skills help you recover from THIS!" And Obi-Wan brought the bat down, THWACK! Right across Ewan's ankles.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!" Ewan managed to speak out before returning mercifully to unconsciousness.
Obi-Wan picked up Ewan's still-lit cigarette and grinned. "Silly goose. Trust in the force!"
4.
Two days later, George and Rick stared at the medium-sized ad in Variety.
MAJOR BIG-BUDGET SUMMER BLOCKBUSTER SCI-FI FILM IN NEED OF NEW LEADING MAN. MUST BE ABLE TO SPEAK IN HOITY-TOITY BRITISH ACCENT, OR HAVE OWN PRO BONO DIALECT COACH. EXPERIENCE WITH/EXPOSURE TO BLUE SCREENS, GUYS IN RUBBER SUITS, FRANK OZ, LIGHTSABER DUELS, AND/OR "THE FORCE" PREFERRED, BUT NOT NECESSARY. NO OUTSPOKEN KILT-WEARING SCOTSMEN, PLEASE. CONTACT GEORGE AT 555-JEDI.
.
"Do you think it's enticing enough, yet vague enough to protect our identities?" asked Rick.
George continued to stare at the ad, then stared at Rick, then closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "Why isn't your name, or for that matter, Robin Gurland's name, ANYwhere in this ad?"
"George! George-meister! George-inator! Casting directors always insist on being paid for every little thing, and me…well, I just didn't feel like it. My horoscope said to avoid excess business transactions today."
Before George could find an appropriately heavy blunt instrument with which to respond, George's secretary, Anne, raced into the room. "George, this phone has been ringing off the hook since this morning."
Knowing when he was stuck in a corner like a whomp rat being hunted by a roving pack of bloodthirsty Jawas with Uzis, George simply slumped back into his cushy office chair and dejectedly mumbled, "Start transferring the calls to my speaker phone."
Rick rubbed his hands together gleefully. "This is gonna be so COOL!"
The first caller buzzed in. George sucked in his gut, exhaled, and announced, "Lucas here. Who am I speaking with?"
"George? Hey, George, it's me! Hamill! I've been trying to get through for days!"
George furrowed his brow. "Hamill…Hamill…not ringing any bells. Any relation to that ice skater lady?"
"Ha ha, George. MARK Hamill! You might remember me from three previous summer blockbuster sci-fi films-"
"How did you get this number?"
"George, for crying out loud, it was in the ad! Now, look-"
"This is the last time I'm going to tell you this: GET LOST!"
"Aw, but George, I need the work! They're not making any more new 'Batman' episodes, and-"
KLIK
Rick took out a notepad, jotted a quick note, and said zealously, "This is gonna be an AWESOME film! Uh, is 'Hamill' spelled with one 'e' or two?"
George squinted at nothing in particular, rubbed his temples, and said nothing. He thought to himself, Ewan, where ARE you? You'd BETTER be dead.
5.
Eventually, Ewan awoke again. A couple more cumbersome splints had been tied onto his poor legs. He immediately reached for the nightstand, but the cigarettes he sought were no longer there.
Obi-Wan KeNutti was sitting at the computer, clicking away with the mouse. Ewan could see by the pictures appearing onscreen that he was about to interrupt a deeply embarrassing web search. He dared to utter, "Squire, it's a fool's game. There BE no nudie pics o' Miss Portman for yuh t' be findin' anywhere."
Obi-Wan jumped a foot high in his chair. "AAH! Don't DO that!" He quickly logged off of whatever porn site he had been accessing and noted, "You're finally awake again! Are you sure you're fully in touch with The Force? I'd calculated that you'd come out of your slumber approximately twenty-three minutes ago, you dirty bird!"
Ewan began to say something that would not have made Obi-Wan very happy, especially as it would have contained more than a few choice expletives, but Obi-Wan quickly-and angrily--interrupted, "No matter! You didn't tell me about…THIS!" And Obi-Wan picked up off the desk Ewan's copy of the Episode II script, which Ewan had stuck inside his own jacket for extra padded warmth.
Ewan's eyes bugged out. "Now, look 'ere, mate! Ye cannae be lookin' through that. I have tae give up a finger every time I tell someone what's gonna hap'n in th' movie! Yuh could get muh killed!"
Obi-Wan pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and huffed, "Forget about your own petty problems for just a second, Jedi! We've got a major CRISIS!"
Ewan was stumped. "Ye mean besides yuh takin' muh cigs away?" he asked incredulously. He craved a smoke deeply.
Obi-Wan ranted, "I did that for your own good. Adventure? Excitement? Marlboro Country? A Jedi craves not these things. And besides…have you READ this?" He slapped Ewan's still-tender legs with the script. Ewan winced.
Obi-Wan continued raving like a Jerry Springer guest on a roll, only without the finger-snapping, "This is ABOMINABLE! Once again, Obi-Wan Kenobi, the greatest Jedi, the Chosen One, gets the SHAFT! JUST like all his OTHER movies! He loses ALL the important fights, EVERYONE he knows either dies or has something awful happen to them, and…" By this point, Obi-Wan's eyes were fully widened, his mouth curled into a hateful snarl, a bit of saliva slinging about as he shrieked like a horror-movie chainsaw victim, "HE NEVER GETS THE GIRL!"
Ewan, for the first time since the reviews for "A Life Less Ordinary" came out, felt true fear. He stuttered, "Bu…but I did nae write th-the bloo-"
Obi-Wan calmed down a few decibel levels, but was still beyond listening. "Fear not, brave Jedi. I know Sith trickery when I see it. But I have a plan! This shall require all the Jedi Writing Skills at my disposal! I shall save this script, and Obi-Wan Kenobi shall get what he deserves!"
Ewan muttered, "Better screenwriters than you have tried, lad."
Obi-Wan smiled like a cat that just found a dead bird soaking in catnip. "But I'm already halfway done! But it'd go even faster if you'd inspire me. Do me a favor."
Ewan resignedly asked, "Wot?"
"Say the line."
"What line?"
"'I've got a bad feeling about this.' Say it. I love it. It moves me and inspires me. It…completes me."
Ewan shrugged. "Oi've got muh a bad feelin' abowt this."
Obi-Wan once again took out the bat-cum-lightsaber. "OBI-WAN DOESN'T HAVE A SCOTTISH ACCENT!"
THWACK! Right in the ankles.
6.
BUZZ
"Lucas here. Who's speaking?" asked George, who had reclined his chair all the way back and was staring at the ceiling. Rick was sitting on the floor next to him, drawing a picture of a green-armored bounty hunter wearing a trenchcoat and a backwards baseball cap and titling it, "SILENT BOBA FETT".
"George, this is Sean Connery. I know yuir not lookin' fur Scots, but I think I got this Obi-Wan character in the bag. Listen to this: 'He betrrrayed and murrrderrred yuirrr fahtherrr'."
"Uh, gee, thanks, Sean. But in this movie, Obi-Wan is still a bit younger than you."
"Now you bloody look 'ere! I can bring my own sword!"
"Bye, Sean."
"I'll play Obi-Wan's father!"
Rick cheerfully added, "Good luck on the next Bond film, Sean! Lookin' forward to it!"
"YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, LUCAS!"
KLIK
BUZZ
"Lucas here. Entertain me."
"George. Hi. Academy-Award-Winning Actor Kevin Spacey here. I think I can help you with your problem."
"Really? Hmm." George seemed genuinely interested. "Alright, well, throw something at me."
"But of course. A reading from the first meeting with Jar Jar, then. Ahem-hem." Academy-Award-Winning Actor Kevin Spacey paused. He began quietly, "If…they find us…they will..CRUSH us…"
Louder and sterner: "..GRIND us…into tiny PIECES…"
Screaming into the line: "…AND BLAST US…INTOOO OOOBLIVIOOOOOOONNN!"
Academy-Award-Winning Actor Kevin Spacey stopped to take a breath. George had wheeled his chair back away from the speaker phone till he was sitting against the wall. Rick was hiding under George's desk, his arms over his head.
George found the courage to mutter, "Uh…Kevin? Can we…call you back?"
"Call me BACK? Call ME back?? Is that ALL you have to say? I just gave you your only shot, PAL! Good luck with whatever second-rate dinner-theater has-been you find for your little puppet show, you HACK!"
KLIK
A voice whimpered from under the desk, "Is it gone?"
BUZZ
It was Anne. "George? Ewan's mom is on line three again. He's been called back for reshoots for his new movie, 'Moulin Rouge', co-starring Nicole Kidman, opening at theaters next year, and-"
George, who had managed to peel himself off the wall, interrupted, "Anne, why are you talking like a PR flack?"
"I'm just repeating what she said, sir. That's what happens when a star hires his mom to be his manager. Anyway, she wants her son. Now."
George thought briefly, then said, "Tell her he's in the can, then hang up."
7.
Ewan awoke yet again. His legs were covered by so many splints now that he appeared from the waist down to be a scarecrow. And his need for a cigarette tore away at him badly. If he'd had a lighter, he would have gladly set the splints on fire and gotten intoxicated from the fumes.
Meanwhile, the ersatz Obi-Wan sat at the computer, typing away madly and mumbling incoherently to himself. Hearing Ewan begin to stir, Obi-Wan turned around and warmly greeted, "Hi! Welcome back! You're awake just in time to read some of the first several dozen pages of the NEW script!" He forced a small stack of papers in Ewan's direction.
Baffled, Ewan took the papers from him. On top was what appeared to be a cover page, reading in its entirety: STAR WARS: EPISODE 2—OBI-WAN TRIUMPHANT, AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY OBI-WAN KENOBI, BASED ON CHARACTERS CREATED BY OBI-WAN KENOBI AND GEORGE LUCAS.
Ewan thought to himself, Well, really now, how much worse than George could the fella be? And so Ewan dared to open up and begin reading:
"[OPENING SCROLL]
STAR WARS
EPISODE II: OBI-WAN TRIUMPHANT
Ten years after the smackdown of the Trade Federation by Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Greatest Jedi Ever Known, and his loyal ragtag group of followers, the galaxy is once again in disarray. Amidala has stepped down from her throne because she realized she was trying to do a man's job. Fortunately, Obi-Wan was more than willing to take her place. Anakin has tried to learn what he can from his Great Master, but his natural inferiority to Obi-Wan has made further training a waste of Obi-Wan's precious time. Qui-Gon Jinn's spirit returns from time to time to apologize to Obi-Wan for being such an idiot. And Chancellor Palpatine has vowed to track down and destroy the villainy of Darth Sidious, wherever he may be.
Jar Jar is dead.
Meanwhile, the Jedi Council has agreed to disband, citing that they have already found The Chosen One in the form of Obi-Wan himself, so their work is done. Or is it?…"
Ewan stopped reading and began retching violently. Was he having a reaction to not having eaten for several days, or had he indeed found a screenwriter worse than Roland Emmerich? Regardless, Obi-Wan looked at him hopefully and asked, "Do you like it so far? Wait'll you read the first scene, where Obi-Wan uses his Jedi powers to blow up the Death Star."
Regaining his composure, Ewan then lost his composure, but in a different way. "Are ye bloody DAFT? B'sides the fact that yuh have no clue what yeh're doin' wit' any of th' characters, the Death Star hasn't even been INVENTED YET! THIS, sirrah, be th' biggest load o CRRRRAP anyone's set before muh since muh agent asked muh t' read a screenplay for a 'Speed' sequel!"
Obi-Wan, without missing a beat, replied cheerfully, "Well, it'll sound better when you and I start rehearsing it. I want you to help me go through this scene later, where Obi-Wan leads Naboo into all-out war against the planet Endor…"
Ewan bellowed, "Take this dung and stuff it back up yer ARSE!"
Obi-Wan paused, thought briefly, then offered, "So, what you're saying is, that as an actor, you're having trouble finding your motivation?"
Ewan slapped his forehead. "Ye keep me prisoner, ye take muh cigarettes away, ye write this SWILL that Jackie Frickin' Collins would take one look at an' go, 'Ew! That sucks!', and ye expect me t' PONCE ABOUT LIKE I'M DOIN' 'MY FAIR LADY'???"
Obi-Wan once again took out his makeshift lightsaber and answered, "Well, yeah. Here, let me help you focus."
THWACK! Right in the ankles.
8.
Lucas had his head down on his desk. Rick was folding his drawings into elaborate paper airplanes and deploying them out the window.
BUZZ
George's voice was sullen and hopeless. "Lucas. May I help you?"
A hoity-toity British accent warmly greeted, "'Allo, George. Glad we could have this chance to chat. I do believe that not only could I make an excellent, refined, mannerly, older Obi-Wan, but that my name—and all the prestige with which it is invested—may lend some acting credibility to your franchise as a whole. A mutual relationship between the two of us cannot help but be beneficial."
Lucas furrowed his brow for what felt like the thirtieth time that day. "Who is this?"
"Ralph Fiennes. Mister Spielberg recommended that I—"
"Didn't you do 'The Avengers'?"
"And 'The English Patient', don't for—"
KLIK
BUZZ
"Lucas. Show me what ya got."
The voice was slow and mellow but distorted. "GEOR-gie, my man. You're chillin' with none other than Pauly Shore! That's right, the Weasel himself wants to do some work-age for the Lucas-man! Think about it: Obi-Weasel Kenobi! Box office gold-age! Whattaya say we—"
KLIK
Rick ran to George's side. "George! Can we--?"
"No."
"But it's—"
"NO!"
BUZZ
"Lucas. Please kill me."
A voice not unlike Michael Palin after an especially painful groin shot chirped, "George? Hi, uh, Ray Park here. Say, do you think—"
"Didn't we just put you in jail in the last story?"
"I'm all done now. Commuted sentence. Any chance we could bring back Maul in this one?"
"Got any Krazy-Glue?"
"Well, I—"
"I think Maul could use it for that lower torso pain. See ya 'round."
KLIK
George wondered aloud, "Maybe I could just go CGI. Or maybe use a different actor, but have some rubber alien attach itself to Obi-Wan's face during the whole movie. Or I could just retire and sell the franchise to Spielberg. He'd probably do it better anyway."
Rick merely curled up on the Wookiee-costume rug in front of George's desk and settled down for a nice long nap. It had been a very long day.
9.
Ewan was feeling positively delirious. Obi-Wan had been forcing him to do run-throughs of various atrocious scenes for hours without a break. He needed a cigarette worse than he'd ever needed anything in his entire life. He was prepared to rub his splints together really quickly to see if he could produce a spark. Only problem was, every time he tried, THWACK! Right across the ankles.
Obi-Wan produced yet another stack of script pages. "Okay, now I want to go through scene 294. Obi-Wan is emotionally torn. On the one hand, Anakin is dead, having been crushed by a falling Star Destroyer. On the other hand, Obi-Wan's big wedding to Amidala is coming up, and he hasn't picked a best man yet. On the third hand, his re-election as Emperor of the Universe has been threatened by the announcement of two other candidates, Ex-Chancellor Palpatine, and Darth Sidious. So Obi-Wan is confiding in his long-time best friend, Han Solo…"
Ewan dropped the script and gasped, "Please…I cannae do much more of this. Could I just have one wee smoke? Just one. Then I swear to yuh, I'll do th' best Obi-Wan this side o' Olivier! I…I beg o' ya!"
Obi-Wan turned his back while he picked up the script pages and answered, "Sorry. I flushed 'em down the toilet. Cigarettes lead to bad smells. Bad smells lead to poor social life. Poor social life…leads to suffering."
That was the last straw.
With one arm, Ewan yelled, "NOOOOO!!!", pushed himself up into a sitting postion, while, with the other arm, he ripped a handful of splints off his mangled legs and drove their pointed ends with all his might into Obi-Wan's shoulder.
The pasty little Jedi wannabe screamed with pain. "AAAHH!! What are you DOING?"
"I'm openin' muhself up t' th' living FORCE, ya BLOODY WANKER!!!" Still holding tight to the splints, Ewan pulled as hard as he could, bringing his whole body toward the flailing Obi-Wan. He wrapped the other arm tightly around Obi-Wan's neck and gripped him as tightly as he could. Obi-Wan keeled over, dragging Ewan down to the floor with him. With one finger, Obi-Wan caught the cord to his computer's keyboard, yanked, and brought it down on Ewan's skull. The two men both grabbed on to the keyboard and struggled over it with all their remaining vestiges of strength.
Obi-Wan won the struggle. He yanked it away and slapped Ewan right in the face with it, knocking him down next to the bed. The whole room spun for Ewan, as he desperately sought an object with which to defend himself. But the poor man's lightsaber, which should have been under the bed, was gone. Ewan looked up to see Obi-Wan raising the keyboard high over his head, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Remember: FEEL, DON'T THINK!!!"
THWACK!
Obi-Wan's arms were still raised up in the air, holding the keyboard. Then, as if he were an AT-ST besieged by Ewoks carrying bazookas, the man who would be Obi-Wan Kenobi toppled limply to the ground next to Ewan.
Behind where Obi-Wan had stood now stood…Liam Neeson, holding the Goodwill-looking lightsaber.
"'How feel you' NOW, you dolt?" Neeson quipped.
Ewan continued to lie in a busted-up heap, but a relieved busted-up heap. "Wot are yuh DOIN' here, old man? How'd yuh find muh?"
Liam twirled the almost-lightsaber like a baton. "Elementary, my dear Ewan. My aides found a Star Wars message board post entitled, 'I'VE GOT THE GENUINE OBI-WAN HELD CAPTIVE IN MY LOG CABIN." It was simply a matter of tracking down his IP address."
Ewan managed meekly, "But…why you?"
"I owed your mother a favor."
"Wot kind o'—"
"Don't ask."
For the second time in his life, Ewan chose not to speak out.
10.
George and Rick had been chatting for several minutes with the voice on the phone. They had had an engaging conversation about various topics—blockbuster films, sword fights, the Oscar nomination process, and whatever else came to mind.
Anne burst in. "George! They found Ewan! He's alive! Call off the recasting!"
George blinked, looked at Anne, looked at Rick, looked at the speaker phone, shrugged, and said, "Well! Another problem solved! I'm sorry, there, guy, but looks like we won't need ya after all. Are you sure you might not still be interested in the Anakin part?"
"What? Aw, NUTS!" said a very peeved Leonardo DiCaprio.
KLIK
THE END.
No Very Real Bona Fide Genuine Idols of Millions, or their mothers, were intentionally harmed or psychologically scarred in the making of this fanfic. All damage to Very Real Bona Fide Genuine Idols of Millions was achieved through special effects, stunt doubles, fake-looking rubber dummies, and cheap overseas laborers. Viva free trade!