Quentin Must Die: Quentin Tem Que Morrer.

By Samuel Cardeal

Quentin is an ordinary young man with an ordinary job and an ordinary life. His days in the doldrums come to an end when, leaving work to go to a movie, he is followed by two armed men. From then on, he is plunged into a whirlwind of events, amid chases, shoot-outs and strip clubs, and has to do everything he can to stay alive. With a few allies and many enemies, Quentin knows they want his blood, but he has no idea why. All he knows is that he's not ready to die.

Inspired by the life and work of Quentin Tarantino, “Quentin Must Die” is a fun and violent adventure, an unpretentious homage to the filmmaker's work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SAMUEL CARDEAL
• Release date: Jun 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667475424

Book preview

PREFACE

Everybody be cool, this is a robbery

On that day, about fifteen years ago, I arrived home around half past ten pm, If I a remember properly (of course I don't remember it properly, It was fifteen years ago!), I woman in yellow  was slicing men wearing suits, the floor was a red pool. At the time, I found that violent and uninteresting. Afterall what amusement can be found in watching blood and limbs torn apart? yeah. I, as the teenager I was, didn't know much about anything, I didn't know who Quentin Tarantino was, maybe I would think it was a good name for a tomato sauce. Of course my mother and sister didn't like what they saw on the screen; the shelves of a video rental store (search about it on Google, it was very popular once upon a time) always held treasures, but also traps for the most inattentives.

I had already watched Pulp Fiction on a prosaic Saturday's night on some movie session of SBT-a major TV channel in Brazil*, which certainly doesn't exist anymore. But, at thirteen or fourteen years old, watching it from the middle and dazing off sometimes during the screening, going to the bathroom during the intermission and only arriving when the movie had already started again, I just can remember of not have understood much of it.

My habit of reading and my not soo smart desire to write, likewise my passion towards Tarantino's work came tardy. I lost the opportunity of watch a lot of his movies at the theater, but, when it came, it came hard. It was watching and rewatching his films that I understood how much his work is more than cool dialogues and references to pop-culture. It is an art work fulfilled with details,subtleties, and layers. It wasn't a trap, it was love. And it was from this love, nurtured with blood, lead, and gunpowder, that Quentin Has to Die-Quentin tem que morrer in Brazilian Portuguese-was born.

Before you get the wrong idea, this work is not an attempt to be a new Tarantino or to equate my work with his. It will never be advertised as Pulp Fiction meets Inglourious Basterds or any such absurd comparison. It is merely an unpretentious tribute to my favorite filmmaker. Quentin Has to Die draws references from all of Tarantino’s work, the director’s life story, and various films by other creators. But it was not written to be taken seriously, nor to be serious. It’s a story to amuse, entertain, a light adventure filled with dark humor, blood, action, more blood, and more dark humor.

If you’re expecting deep reflections, this book is not for you. If you’re looking for a difficult to understand plot, something innovative, pretentiously genius, cult, and bold, I’m sorry, close the book and find another work. But if you want a few pages of unpretentious fun, blood, gunfire, and dust, welcome to my world; this is the gateway to the most chaotic corners of my mind. Apologies for the mess, and make yourself at home.

Samuel Cardeal

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— Hey, come back here with my barrel!

— said the woodpecker

As he took the object from the bird, the guard fell into it and tumbled down the river. When he realized it, he was going over the falls in the woodpecker's makeshift boat.

— Oh no, nooo!

The barrel sped down, shooting a jet of water from its base. On the stairs facing the waterfall, dozens of people in yellow raincoats raised their hands, cheering the brave soul descending the falls.

— Quentin!

 his mother’s voice echoed from the hallway, momentarily drawing the boy’s attention away from the cartoon.

Soon, his mother appeared, accompanied by a man he didn’t recognize. The stranger wore denim overalls over a red and black plaid shirt, well-worn boots, and a faded cap covering his thinning hair.

— Son, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.

— The unexpected visitor stepped forward, and the hostess stepped back a few meters, leaving the man to speak directly with Quentin.

— Hello, young man.

Little Quentin, still shy at nine years old, said nothing, only staring at the stranger with wide eyes and curiosity pulsing in his childlike chest.

— Well, my name is Elroy Earl. You don't know me, but you must remember your uncle Sebastian.

The child shook his head, showing he didn't know who Uncle Sebastian was. The man showed a frustrated expression on his weary face but continued speaking.

— I worked with your Uncle Sebastian in the coal mines in Centralia, Pennsylvania. We spent the worst years a man can spend in that cursed hot hole. It was hell, son. We didn't have basic hygiene conditions, couldn't leave the mines for days, no bath, no toilet, and no decent food.

Your uncle and I worked side by side, and our boss, Mr. Klein Sweet, said our food and housing expenses were too high, and our production didn't cover the costs. We started being charged based on production quantity, and we couldn't leave until we met the quota. And worse, if we produced too little, we went without food and even water.

"One time, after days without food, I passed out. We'd seen others pass out, they were all taken away and never came back. Knowing what would happen to me, Sebastian hid me and took care of me.

 When I woke up, there was water and food, even though the water was muddy and the food was a greasy slop that shouldn't even be given to pigs."

Where did you get this? I asked his uncle. Sebastian laughed and showed me a crumpled notebook, with a dirty cardboard cover. I completed my quota and yours, don't worry, we won't have any more problems with this. I didn't understand what he meant, so his old uncle told me the story of that little notebook.

Your uncle's grandfather served in the Second World War, as you must know. Quentin nodded slightly, having no idea that his great-grandfather had gone to war. Frustration was glaring in the rheumy, lifeless eyes of the old miner.

— Well then — continued the visitor —, your uncle Sebastian's grandfather, my old friend Sebastian, served in the Second World War, fought against the Nazis and blew up dozens of those damn Aryan bastards, Hitler worshipers. His unit was specialized in explosives, and with that, your great-grandfather learned a lot about bombs, detonators, and all that stuff. When he returned from the war, he brought with him a notebook where he wrote down everything he learned in the army, a true bomb bible.

On his deathbed, your uncle's grandfather took the notebook from under the hospital pillow and handed it to his son, Sebastian's father, saying that it was his greatest treasure, the knowledge he had accumulated throughout his life. There, in that battered notebook marked by time, was everything an honorable man needed to blow up whoever he desired.

Your uncle's father kept the notebook and, after reading its entire contents, fell in love with that knowledge. Soon he entered the demolition business and could knock down all kinds of buildings, managing to build bombs with almost any ingredient. When he traveled to Latin America, where he saw an opportunity to expand his business, he contracted yellow fever and did not survive. He died in the jungle and was buried in a shallow grave.

But before he died, he handed the notebook of his father, which he always carried with him, to one of the natives, making the poor devil promise to send it to his son's address in the United States. The native, who could barely write his own name, took the notebook and the paper with the address, and only God knows how, managed to send the package.

When Sebastian received the old notebook, he cried remembering the father he couldn't bury, and swore never to part with it. Like his father, your uncle also fell in love with the art of blowing up things and added information, the result of his own study and experiences. In the mine, he kept the notebook, but didn't use it, because he knew that if they discovered his knowledge about explosives, they would steal it and get rid of Sebastian. So, for seven long years, until the day he used his knowledge to save me, your uncle kept that notebook inside his anus.

At that moment, young Quentin changed his attentive and interested expression to a grimace that mixed disgust and admiration.

— From that day on, your uncle shared that secret with me, and we started using the explosives he made to finish the job faster and reach the production goals. But unfortunately, after a few months, Sebastian was brought down by an infection, dying within a few days. However, before leaving this world, your uncle asked me to keep the notebook in a safe place and, when I managed to get out of that damn hellhole, to deliver it to his nephew, the sole heir. You, young Quentin.

"I kept that notebook, rolled up like a tube and wrapped in plastic, lodged in my anus for three long years, until, with the help of explosives, I managed to pay off my debts with Mr. Sweet and get out of that damn mine. And today I am here to deliver what is rightfully yours, son.

The man withdrew a small, crumpled, and dirty notebook from his pocket, whose yellowed pages were the lightest color on his body, and handed it to young Quentin, who reached out and embraced that hereditary treasure with his childlike hands.

— This notebook is now yours, son. Always keep it with you and use it wisely."

PART I

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Elvis X Chuck

"But Elvis was prettier than many women... many women... you know... If I had to fuck with a guy, if I really needed,if my life depended on it... I would fuck with Elvis.

I would fuck with Elvis

(True Romance)

It was past five in the afternoon, the streets were sparsely populated, and Video Archives was empty, with no customers among its long aisles filled with VHS tapes. Quentin remained seated, his feet on the counter and his hands clasped behind his head. He would take out a tape he had just finished and insert a new one, almost in an automatic process.

     There was only him, who had been the store manager for over a year, and Roger, who was organizing some recently returned tape covers at that moment. While Roger was working and Quentin rewatching a Japanese film, the shaky image full of imperfections from repeated playback, the two friends and coworkers argued heatedly.

— You’re crazy! — said Roger, with the energy of a lawyer performing before a jury. — Elvis is like a little boy who lost his lollipop compared to Chuck Berry.

— Jesus Christ, Rog! How can such blasphemy come out of your mouth? — retorted Quentin, pausing the tape to continue the debate.

— Say what you want, Quentin, it doesn't change the fact that Chuck Berry is the one and true king.

— Don't get me wrong, man. Berry is a legend, a great musician. I acknowledge everything he did for Rock 'n' Roll and music in general, but Elvis Presley was, is, and always will be The King.

— There wouldn't be Hendrix, Clapton, or even Dick Dale without Berry. That's the truth, my friend.

— Right, you're correct, man; but it’s not just about the music, or playing guitar like no other. As great as all those musicians are, no one has the vibe, the energy that Elvis Aron Presley had, brother! Besides, you have to consider the entire career. How many movies did Chuck Berry star in?

— He isn't white, and you know that's the only reason.

— Oh, don’t come with that, man! Don’t tell me that Elvis only got his fame because he’s a white guy.

— Am I lying?

— don't mix things up

— If Chuck Berry makes out with a white girl in the back seat of his car, he's accused of harassment and all sorts of things. Now, if a cool white guy marries his thirteen-year-old cousin, there's nothing wrong with that.

— That's not entirely true, Rog. And, after all, when did we stop talking about Elvis and Berry and start debating racism in 1950s America?

— Everything is interconnected, Quentin, you can't separate things.

— You're losing focus, my friend. The point is that you're trying to defend a flawed viewpoint, and thus, you can't maintain reason.

— Think what you want, man. I'll stick with my Chuck Berry records and you with the church records of the great King of Rock.

— Those records are fantastic, you clown — Quentin laughed at the jab. — And half of the Chuck Berry records in your house are ones I lent you.

Roger laughed so hard he almost dropped the covers he was holding. He caught his breath as he prepared to counter, when they heard the bell at the store's door ring. Both turned their eyes to the entrance and fell silent to admire the beautiful woman approaching with slow, rhythmic steps. Roger adjusted his red hair, tied back in a ponytail, and abandoned what he was doing to attend to the new customer, but was interrupted.

— Leave it to me, Rog; I'll handle this.

Quentin stood up, dusted off his shirt, removing the crumbs from his recent snack, and approached the woman. She wore a white button-up shirt over loose black pants; she had a cigarette burned halfway down between her fingers; she was barefoot. The manager looked at those feet with a sparkle in his eye, losing himself for a few seconds as he imagined drinking a good beer that would slide down those slender legs and cascade over those lovely toes.

 He shook off the mental image and looked into the woman's eyes, outlined with heavy black makeup and red as if she had just returned from a sweet herbal journey; her face, of an exotic and stunning beauty, was morbidly pale, framed by straight black hair cut just above her shoulders.

 The young manager stood up straight, facing the approaching customer. She stopped less than a meter away from him, and he spoke:

— Can I help you?

The woman brought a finger to her mouth, lightly biting it, turned her neck, eyeing the tapes on the surrounding shelves, and looked back at Quentin, whose mouth was dry and breathing heavy.

— I need a movie for tonight, but I'm not sure what to choose.

— Any particular genre?

— Hmmm… I'm in a terrible dilemma. I don't know if I should take a gangster movie, which are my boyfriend's favorites, or a musical, which are my favorites; then again, for a night for two, a romance might be more appropriate. What do you think, big guy?

Quentin's cheeks flushed, and he smiled nervously, scratching his prominent chin.

— Well, what if I told you you don't have to choose?

— Then you'd be a big liar.

— Come with me — said Quentin, turning and heading down one of the store's aisles.

The young woman followed him. He walked a few meters and then began to feel the spines of the tapes on display, slowing down until he stopped at one of them. It was black, with the text clearly visible in bright pink. Quentin pulled out the tape and showed her the cover.

— Elvis? — asked the woman, while examining the image on the cover.

    At the top, written above a large illustration of the young and attractive face of Elvis Presley, KING CREOLE. The star's name stood out, even more than the title of the tape; the first name in checkered neon lights; the second in cursive writing, slightly tilted.

— The King! — Quentin replied. — And here, in this movie, you’ll find everything you’re looking for. Gangsters, great music, and romance — he added, smiling broadly and daring a wink with his left eye.

— I prefer Jerry Lee, but Elvis isn’t all that bad.

The woman’s statement transformed Quentin’s smile into