Meet The Broke Baller
New Orleans, Louisiana bred (and now District of Columbia based) hip hop artist, slam poet, producer, screenwriter, host, and veteran middle and high school teacher Drew Anderson has continued to innovatively utilize his talent for connecting with audiences big and small via the avenues of art and education. The son of an English teacher, Drew has always gravitated toward writing as a weapon of expression and a tool of informing through entertainment. His explosive performance style and knack for satire have brought him to stages around the globe. (continue reading bio…)
If #GetOut had been directed by M. Night Shyalaman . . .
Instead of Rod showing up at the end, it would be the white cop from the beginning of the film. Then the audience would groan in dismay as the film faded to black, leaving them to guess what happened next. The audience would rise to leave, cursing themselves for falling for another Shyalaman flick with a promising premise and a tripped-out ending.
Except . . it wouldn’t be the ending.
Halfway through the credits, the film would return to Chris riding in the passenger seat of the cop’s car. Apparently Chris explained what happened and the cop believed him.
Except . . there’s something . . . off about this cop.
The cop speaks with the eerily high-pitched voice of a little boy, unnerving poor Chris, who is physically and mentally exhausted from his earlier ordeal. The cop says that he knew where to find Chris when Rose hit the deer and again during the bloodbath at the end because he was drawn to death. He could sense it. Looking slowly over to Chris, he utters the words: “I see dead people.”
Fraught with tension, Chris quietly appraises the cop. He considers jumping out of the car, but at this point it is moving at 60 miles per hour. Contemplating his options, he thinks, “Will I have to kill another crazy motherfucker this evening?”
Suddenly, the cop’s body jerks. Wide-eyed and terrified, Chris grabs the dashboard and the side of his seat for dear life as the car swerves on the road. Thankfully, the cop regains control of the car as quickly as he lost it and continues driving.
Except . . something has changed about this cop.
Apparently, this cop’s body houses 24 distinct personalities, all of which are characters from M. Night Shyalaman films. Trapped in a moving car with this psychopath, Chris looks on in hyperventilating, helpless horror as the cop’s new voice takes over: the voice of a nine-year-old boy named Hedwig.
“Death lives in these woods, you know,” “Hedwig” remarks calmly. “There’s a beast out here. And soon the world will know that the beast is real. He’s done awful things to people and he’ll do awful things to you.”
“Hedwig” gasps playfully, his face a sick mask of mock shock, as if to say, “Boo!” And with that, Chris has had enough. He grabs for the gun in “Hedwig’s” holster. The car spins wildly as Chris and “Hedwig” struggle for the gun. A cigarette falls out of “Hedwig’s” pocket. Chris, still recovering from the lingering effects of Missy’s hypnosis, vomits at the sight of the cigarette. Amidst the struggle, “Hedwig” has apparently morphed into one of the aliens from the movie Signs and reacts to the vomit as if it were acidic. He howls, writhing in pain as the car crashes into a tree.
Chris wakes up in the wrecked car. The impact was on the driver’s side, caving in the car door on the Schizo-Shyalaman dude and apparently killing him. Chris grabs the gun and pries his way out of the car, but Schizo-Shyalaman awakens, grabs Chris’s arm and chokes out the words: “Well aren’t you the clever one?” Gagging like a zombie and clawing at Chris with the last of his life, he shrills: “Beware . . Those We Don’t . . Speak . . Of . . ” Then he falls into death’s brutal embrace, all 24 of his personalities drowning together in the blood of one body.
Chris, gun in his hand and mania in his eyes, half-hops along the side of the highway, his ravaged body barely upright. His free hand grabs desparately at a tree branch to steady himself in his slow, determined path to freedom.
Except . . that’s not a tree branch.
It is the arm of a red-hooded, fur-covered monstrosity with a sneering pig’s snout baring teeth as sharp as its long, knife-like claws.
It is . . Those We Don’t Speak Of.
The beast lunges violently at Chris, who falls on his back. The behemoth raises its arms and releases a fearsome, piercing screech as it moves in for the kill. Coursing with fight-or-flight adrenaline, Chris has just enough of his wits left to aim and fire.
The monster falls on top of Chris, smothering him in bloody fur.
Except . . it’s not real fur.
Chris pulls off the mask of Those We Don’t Speak Of, revealing the face of Andre aka Logan, the surviving black dude hijacked by the Armitage’s.
Except . . it’s not just Andre aka Logan.
Panting in primal pain, succumbing to his bullet wound, the wild-eyed Andre/Logan We Don’t Speak Of growls through gritted teeth: “Do you know why I was so familiar to you earlier? DO you?!”
Chris’s heart pounds impossibly fast. He’s been through enough. He doesn’t want to hear any more. He just wants to go home. With all the strength left in his battered body, he wrenches his gun arm out from under the weight of Andre/Logan We Don’t Speak Of. He aims the pistol at his adversary’s temple, then hears him say:
“I am your MOTHER!”
Chris is paralyzed by the one-two punch of shock and confusion. “What?” he cries out. “No! How?!”
Apparently, Andre’s body was indeed hijacked by Chris’s mother. Chris lets out a wail reminiscent of Luke Skywalker’s similar discovery in The Empire Strikes Back. “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
Fuming, Mom/Andre/Logan We Don’t Speak Of erupts: “You left me! LEFT me! Now . . who will come for YOU?!”
Poisoned with panic, Chris aims the pistol back at the temple of Mom/Andre/Logan We Don’t Speak Of.
But he can’t do it. Even in the wake of all that has happened today, he cannot bring himself to shoot another black man (who may or may not be housing the consciousness of his mother).
BLAOW! The gunshot cracks the night, illuminating the scene. Mom/Andre/Logan We Don’t Speak Of slumps over off of Chris’ body, expiring. Smoke wafts out of the gun held by . . Rod.
“T-S-mothafuckin’-A.” states Rod, calm yet emphatic. “We handle shit. Consider this shit . . handled.”
Headed home, Chris lays slumped across the back seat of Rod’s car, utterly broken in body, beyond broken in spirit.
And in the driver’s seat, Rod looks toward the camera and slowly, wickedly grins . .
(P.S. If you enjoyed this, check out my [much shorter] versions of 10 other directors taking on #GetOut ! http://www.brokeballer.com/what-if-how-10-directors-would-have-changed-getout/ )