This guy Frank had a story – He’d been poisoned. There was no cure. He said he was going to die. Maybe 2 days, maybe a week. He wanted to know one thing. Who pulled this trick?
This double-breasted teenage punk had problems. He was all mixed up. He wanted to philander. But he couldn’t tell his woman. Yes, that’s right, this was his problem – I didn’t care.
Frank had another affliction. You could call it a lot of things. Only one name fits. “Laughable male gaze”. I see it a lot. Never fails to make me laugh. You know the kind of thing? A guy without looks or personality walks in. Women want this guy. I don’t buy it Frank. Is this really how it is? Writers Russell Rouse and Clarence Greene. Director Rudolph Maté. If not for me, do it for the actors. Feel sorry for them. Listen to me, I tell you.
Frank’s woman. She was one of those broads. A sick invention of the 50s pretenders. Not Raymond, not him. She was a “whomever”. She didn’t need a name. Just a look. Frank called her Paula. She kept saying the same thing. “I love you. I know something’s wrong”. Yes you got one thing right, something is wrong. Can you guess what it is Paula? Tell the writers. Get me a life. Add some self-respect. Shake me up a little. I’m a woman.
Fat hunk with teenage problems Frank had a job. He had to find out why. Boy did he meet some characters. These characters were real. Unlike him and his broad. They had lives beyond what they said. They were good. Always hiding something. Always telling more when they had to. They had a story. Without them. This guy Frank was nothing. His story was nothing.
Frank found out something. Only love mattered. Then he died. For the first time. I felt like the police. Nothing. That was the end of that punk. I’ll tell the broad said the chief. Don’t bother. She’s got nothing to say.
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