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(c) 2024 J. D. Osborne-McGavin. All rights reserved. Lyrics are (c) their respective owners and quoted under Fair Use. No part of this work may be used in the creation or training of generative AI or natural language models.

THE PRECIPICE,

or

INSIDE THE SCREENWRITER'S STUDIO

by J. D. Osborne-McGavin

* * * * *

Chapter II

Inside the Screenwriter's Studio

Fall 1989

Cassidy groans as a stray beam of sunshine slips through the gaps in her blinds, shining directly across her lidded eyes. Her head pounds despite otherwise feeling as if she actually got a decent amount of sleep. When she draws her extra pillow over her face to shield herself from the harsh daylight, she's greeted by the scent of the bitch who had slept on it last night.

"God dammit," she mutters muffledly into the pillow. She takes in another breath of the lingering scent and thinks back. What happened? She remembers closing up the store, taking Isla to Calico, chatting her up for a bit, then stumbling back home assisted by the rough collie while---oh God---singing just like the `local wildlife' she always mocks. She pushes that memory from her mind and thinks. Then what? She recalls Isla helping her into bed and then...

Hard cut to now.

Did she black out and `time travel,' as usual? She breathes into the pillow again. No, nothing else happened. All frames survived, not one lost to the inky black abyss of her memory's floorless cutting room, for once. It all adds up. Although she has a hangover, she still has her memory. Ergo, she must not have gotten as smashed as she usually does with company and thus failed to drown /all/ of her brain cells in what she had intended on being an all cleansing, brain resetting great flood of bottom shelf bourbon.

She sighs and turns away from the window to face the wall, clutching the pillow to her chest. Isla must have dropped her off early to get rid of her annoying hide. Sure, that happens sometimes, but it's always been because the other bitch wasn't interested in mating with her, which is fine. Not every bitch's cup of tea, /c'est la vie/.

But... the kiss. No explaining that one away. That wasn't the reluctant kind that a dogs-only' type of bitch gives. No, that was one of interest, and... yes, she clearly remembers that same interest in Isla's scent. So why didn't the rough collie continue? She rewinds the last couple minutes of the night and plays them back. Isla said something, what was it? The realization causes her to snort; that rough collie wanted her toremember.'

"Well Isla, you got your wish," she sighs into the pillow. It would figure that /the one time/ she /does/ remember a night on the town, it's the one where nothing happened.

But that's not entirely true, is it? There was the drunken `duet.' /That/ definitely happened. Jesus Lion Christ did it ever. She hides her head under the pillow in shame. It's going to be /so/ awkward the next time she runs into that bitch at the record store. And that's assuming there's a next time to even worry about. Maybe the rough collie will just avoid her on any future trips.

<That's enough.>

<You've used up your allotment of self-pity and self-hatred for one morning. You're not Cass the tortured artist, suffering for your craft. No, you're Cass the survivor. When you get knocked down, you dust yourself off and keep going. Perseverance, that's the name of the game. That's the difference between the many who /say/ they want to make it big, and the few who /do/. You. Will. Keep. Going. There is no amount of rejection, not from Paramount nor paramour, that can stop you. Because you just... keep... going.>

The dry taste of cotton fabric greets your tongue as you bite down...

<So what are you going to do, Cass? Just lie here and feel sorry for yourself?>

...claws and fangs dig in...

<That's not you. That's never been you. You've never needed anyone. Not a mom or dad. Not a mate or friends. Hmph. Friends. You want friends, do you? Then get the fuck up and bring some to life! /That's/ how you /make/ friends. /That's/ how you've always /made/ friends.>

...teeth tug, claws pierce, muzzle snarls...

<That's right. They're all you need. They're all you've ever needed. So you're going to turn this woe is me fucking nonsense off and you're going to get up right the fuck now.>

...back straightens, paws twist, throat growls...

<That's it. You're going to get up right now and get back to your typewriter where you belong. Where you've /always/ belonged.>

...eyes grow wild, breath hot...

<GET THE FUCK UP!>

...heart pounds...

<AND>

...fangs tear...

<GET>

...claws shred...

<TO>

...jaws strangle...

<WORK!>

...pillow explodes.

Goose down and the magic of motivational internal monologue rain down as you fall out of bed. "Jesus Christ on a fucking cross!" you can't help but yelp as the tumble is gracefully broken by your tail.

<You couldn't be like everyone else and just make a heart pumping, high octane mix tape from all the soundtracks you have lying around instead, could you? Eye of the Tiger'?Push It To the Limit'? Fight to Survive'?You're the Best'?>

<Heh.>

<`Why eviscerate pillows? What pillows do to you? That kind stuff not teach you how to conquer bitter self-loathing, Cassidy-chan. Understand?'>

<It's a little too late for your advice, Mr. Miyagi. But thanks for trying.>

*THUMP, THUMP, THUMP*, goes the floor beneath you.

"Hey! Stop your roughhousing up there, somma us are tryna sleep!" a gruff voice calls from below.

<Mr. Butterfield. AKA 2B. The fuck is that bear complaining about. It's, what...>

12:43

<Who the fuck sleeps this late, or maybe early?>

...

<Don't answer that.>

Sputtering attempts to evacuate the feathers from your muzzle are only modestly successful.

<Why did you have to insist on genuine feather pillows? Now look, you're covered in them. If you were a vixen, everyone would assume the obvious and think nothing of it. But a bitch like you? Well, everyone's going to think you got overly excited watching the flying spawns of Satan at the park and gave chase, terrorizing them. But they're geese, they deserve it. Flip the fucking script on those waterfowl. HONK! HONK! CASS GONNA FUCK YOU UP FOR NO REASON OTHER THAN FUCK YOU FOR BEING A GOOSE. I'M GONNA PLUCK YOU BALD AND MAKE DREAMS ON TOP OF YOU AND ALL YOUR FRIENDS!>

<You know what? Fuck them, they deserve to be stuffed into pillows and you're glad you bought goose down instead of that polyfill garbage. You're doing your part to make the world a better place.>

You run your paw through your fur.

<God damn that's a lot of feathers. Must have been a couple dozen geese trapped in there. You really did give back to society for once. Welp, better get yourself cleaned up. Maybe a good shake is in order. Is it ever not?>

Shake, shake, shake.

<No luck. Apparently down is pretty stubborn. Who knew?>

<Probably the geese.>

<Oh they know.>

<You may have won the battle at Pillow Fort Hill, but the geese are going to win the war with their deep cover sleeper agents. ... No, that doesn't work. That implies the geese you confettied all over your shitty apartment were alive and struck out at you all on their own. This is more like... more like... the doomsday machine in Dr. Strangelove. A dead dog's---well, goose's---switch, waiting silently for you to lash out, only to unleash... it was cobalt-thorium G in the movie, wasn't it? Yep, cobalt-thorium G...oose. Wait, it all makes sense! Fuck, maybe you should treat the birds better /now/ so they'll spare you during and after their inevitable uprising.>

You give the room a once over.

<Look at this God damn mess. It was bad enough before the pillow's disembowelment. Just look at the ashtray...>

Emptied.

<...or that disgusting mug of `coffee' you used as a makeshift ashtray when the real one got too full...>

Washed.

<...or that overflowing, smelly mountain of garbage, your `justification' for not dumping the ashtray...>

Thrown.

<...or those beer cans playing tin soldier around the garbage can...>

Hanoi'd.

<...or that greasy, congealed tower of pizza boxes stacked twelve high on the counter, obviously arranged in some failed attempt to capture the totally awesome chic that only a mutated terrapin could hope to pull off...>

Cowabunga'd.

You place your head in your paws and succumb to the horrifying realization of what actually befell you last night: Mary Poppins spiked your drink, took you home, waited for you to pass out, and then had her way with your filthy apartment.

<And what did you do immediately after she cleaned up after you? That's right, you turned the apartment into a post-apocalyptic wasteland of cobalt-thorium Goose.>

You begrudgingly carry your hungover, befeathered hide to the counter. Your driver's license, two aspirin, and a letter penned in the serial cleaner's neat pawwriting rest atop the now immaculate surface.

<Well, go on. Aren't you interested in the supercalifragilisticexpiali-fucking-docious lecture she took the time to write?>

The paper you take between your paws is instantly recognizable. Your pawpads have felt it many times. It's paper meant for your typewriter.

<Let's get this over with... /ahem/...>

<Dear Lazy Fucking Slob,>

Cass,

I'm sorry I won't able to stick around until you wake up.

Unfortunately, I have practicum this morning so I need to go. I

hope you don't feel bad, either from a hangover or about

anything that happened.

For the former, I'm leaving two aspirin for you next to this

letter. Hate to sound cliche, but take two and call me when you

can, my number's on the back. Just leave a message if my machine

picks up.

As for the latter, I'm not your mother and I'm not going to

lecture you. That's not what this letter's about.

<Thank God.>

You remember that tigress I mentioned? I meant everything I

said. I believe everyone deserves a fresh start and a fair

shake. And that applies to us both.

<Shit, you must have fucked up real good for her to want to reboot things already.>

I'm not implying anything either of us did was wrong, I just

don't want to leave things between us the way they are now.

I also meant what I said about your script. I do want to read

more. I know you said you weren't sure where it was going to go,

and that it was weird to have someone in the fur read it right

in front of you, but...

<There they are, you can see them so clearly. Those puppy-dog eyes looking back at you. Pleading. Begging. You can't resist drowning in those big, saucer-shaped pools. They call to you like a siren song. They're your personal kryptonite.>

<No, seriously, look again.>

A paw-drawn rough collie's head stares back at you with the most saccharine set of eyes you've ever seen.

<God dammit.>

You continue to read beneath the visage of tooth decay.

Please?

Isla

P.S. You have a pretty decent voice, even if you were a bit

drunk. I'd like to hear it when you're sober sometime.

<Hmm, she likes your voice, does she?>

You wander over to your milk crate of records courtesy of your five-finger employee discount at Double-R.

<Let's see. Something to limber up your voice. You wooed her with that Ozzy / Lita Ford duet, and it's not exactly hard to sing better than that kindred spirit across the pond you share names with. So, how about...>

The album cover with a gothic-inspired room and the title DIARY OF A MADDOG printed in what you can only assume is meant to be a spooky or ghoulish script calls to you. Your paw slides the black disc from its cardboard sheath and places it on the record player, Side B up.

<Alright, time for your stupid bar tricks to shine.>

Your thumb flips the switch on the turntable, sending the LP spinning. You count the gaps between tracks like rings on a tree stump.

<1, 2, 3...>

You grasp the needle and carefully guide it over the last gap.

<Who the fuck puts the /title/ track at the /end/ of the album?>

The spinning record draws you into its trance as you lower the needle just above the groove.

<Gently... you've got this...>

Fingers release. Needle strikes vinyl. Speakers crackle and hiss in agony as they're torn from their slumber.

But only for a split second.

<Perfection.>

The loving, sensual, seductive caress of Randy Rhoads' paws across guitar strings grace your ears.

<Why God, why! Why did you take Randy from us so young but allow George Michael to continue perpetuating war crimes on all creation!? Is there no justice!?>

You bring your own paws to your air guitar and begin to strum along with the tod stolen from you several years ago.

<Lose yourself to the music. Let it take you where it wants to go...>

The neoclassical guitar solo melts into angry, wailing riffs seamlessly, like a perfect match cut. The same anger pumps through your veins as you wildly strum your paw over your middle. Moments later your blood pressure drops as Randy's guitar calms and coos soothingly. You begin to chant the words you long ago committed to memory.

Screaming... at the window

Watch me die... another day

Hopeless... situation

Endless price I have to pay

Your paws dance across your guitar as you twirl around the room fleet-pawwed and nimble. Your movements stir the toxic dust of cobalt-thorium Goose, clouding your apartment like a fog machine at a metal concert.

Sanity now it's beyond me

There's... no... choice...

You close your eyes and you're there again, on stage. Your heart brims with a warmth and fullness you've come to realize you've been missing all your life. "Cass! Cass!" your fans shout in adora---

*THUMP, THUMP, THUMP*

<Fuck that fucking bear, don't let him take the love you share with your fans from you!>

You crack the knob on your stereo. Speakers cry louder and glowing gauges gleefully dance in eager and obedient compliance with your command.

You close your eyes and rejoin Randy, strumming in time with the fox. You gaze past the blinding stage lights and across the astral plane of self-hatred and mental illness you inhabit with your fans, and with each and every one you connect through your words on a deeply intimate and emotional level.

Diary... of a maddog

Walk the line... again today

Entries... of confusion

Dear diary, I'm here to stay

*THUMP*

Don't let him take you away from them...

*thump*

Don't leave them...

*th...u...m...p*

"Cass! Cass! Cass!" a multitude of beasts of every species on God's green Earth chant. Your body has never felt so warm or so light as a thousand paws embrace you and lift you to the heavens.

The hypnotic and ethereal whispering of Randy's guitar drifts distantly into the background as Lee Kerslake's pounding drums take over. Tempo builds in lockstep with the love you share with your flock.

To you, they raise their cigarette lighters.

To them, you raise your microphone.

<To heaven, we raise our muzzles and sing.>

Manic depression befriends me...

Hear...

...her...

...voic---

Speakers howl out in an otherworldly scream, then abruptly cease. Devoid of Randy and Lee's accompaniment, you're taken from the altar by a rapture of deafening silence. Once light and graceful paws turn leaden and clumsy without the life-giving drum beat of song. You trip, interrupting your ascension to heaven and instead hurtle toward the dreaded darkness of the hell below.

The all-consuming blackness is endless.

You fall for hours...

...for days...

...for weeks...

...for months...

...for decades...

...for lifetimes...

...to the bottomless infernal abyss you fall...

forever