The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Mime

Following the disappointing results of the New Japan Fighting Championship Tag-Team Tournament, the team of Francis Ford Cuppola, Comme Çi and Comme Ça (the French Mime Assassins), and Francis’ assistant Rodney P went their separate ways. Francis, as you know, never stopped searching for new ways to get his foot into the wrestling business, the mimes, presumably, mimed, and Rodney had taken his hiatus to regroup and tour Japan. Now, after a month of gathering his bearings, Rodney P found himself sitting in the back of a limo across from his ignorant employer already wishing he was back on vacation.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Read my mail please, Rodney?

The elder filmmaker handed Rodney a stack of envelopes. Rodney leafed through it with a sharp inhale and a rolling flutter of his eyelids as he saw some of the dates stretch back well past the moment the team had left for Japan to train the French Mime Assassins.

Rodney P: Francis, some of these go back a year.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I know. I don’t get envelopes.

Rodney eyed Francis’ elderly innocence with that casual disbelief he’d taken to wearing like it were his own skin.

Rodney P: You don’t get envelopes? What’s there to get?

Francis Ford Cuppola: See this?

Francis offered an upturned finger. Rodney squinted at it without seeing what Francis was drawing attention to before Francis pulled it back and looked for himself.

Francis Ford Cuppola: August 12, 1999. Standard letter envelope. Paper cut scar. Worst pain there is, Rodney. That finger will never be the same again.

Rodney was unimpressed.

Rodney P: You could always get a letter opener?

Francis ignored his finger and began to nod with smug approval of his assistant.

Francis Ford Cuppola: This is exactly why you’re my assistant, Rodney. You think of the things I would have thought of if I weren’t thinking of the other things I'm thinking of. We’re in sync!

Rodney remained unimpressed as he stared at his employer.

Rodney P: Right.

It had been a longstanding internal argument within Rodney as to just how much brain power Francis employed to function daily, how much he used to tangentially cascade and fragment his reality into nonsense like one of his ‘films’, and how much it took for Francis to severely mess other people’s days up as they attempted the dubious task of interpreting that nonsense. The results had, so far, been inconclusive.

Rodney P: How about I read your mail for you, huh?

Francis was overjoyed. Rodney lifted out an envelope from the stack, set the stack aside, and opened the envelope and pulled it’s lone letter out and frowned as he read the summary of the letter to Francis with subdued confusion.

Rodney P: Merriam-Webster regrets to inform you that they have summarily rejected your word ‘Cuppolastic’, as such it will not be formally recognized as a word in their upcoming dictionary edition.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Damn.

Francis sat back and pressed the edge of his finger to his mouth like he’d just lost a war.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Next time.

Francis cursed under his breath and reluctantly shrugged off the disappointment.

Francis Ford Cuppola: What else is there, Rodney?

Rodney set the dubious dictionary rejection notice aside and found a type-written letter.

Rodney P: Okay. Here’s one.

He read aloud, his eyes frowning tighter as he did.

Rodney P: Mister Cuppola. Stop. This is your third warning. Stop. We ask you once more. Stop. Please refrain from cooling your feet in our soft-serve ice cream machine. Stop. The last incident you used your genitals—

Francis waved his arms quickly.

Francis Ford Cuppola: No, no! That’s enough of that. We don’t need to read that anymore.

Rodney eyed Francis with a complete lack of surprise.

Francis Ford Cuppola: In fact, forget the mail. Throw the whole stack out. I don’t want to see it again.

Rodney P: Okay.

Rodney set the stack of envelopes aside with a sense of smug satisfaction.

Rodney P: All right, so Francis, what on earth are we doing in Louisiana?

Francis grinned.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re gonna love it, Rodney. You remember my great idea for the French Mime Assassins movie?

Rodney P: ...

Francis Ford Cuppola: Exactly. Well, as it turns out, the amusement park I was hoping to use as our primary location so happens to also have a wrestling promotion on-site!

Rodney didn’t blink. He merely stared blankly without surprise at His employer who had evidently forgotten Rodney’s previous briefing about Pure Amusement Wrestling months ago when they were determining potential sites for Francis’ ambitious dreams of branching his operations into wrestling. Rodney feigned surprise.

Francis Ford Cuppola: It’s going to be fantastic, Rodney. And I found it myself. This is precisely the sort of federation you should be bringing to my attention. What exactly do you do all day, anyway?

Rodney’s feigned surprise dimmed.

Francis Ford Cuppola: So, as it just so happens, I’ve currently put on hold my plans to make my Mime movie, and instead I’ve signed them up, are you ready? To compete… in Pure Amusement Wrestling!!!

Rodney P: That’s great, Francis.

Francis Ford Cuppola: It can’t miss, Rodney. Their first match is some sort of “Royal Rumble”. It’s the perfect chance to showcase our mime’s above-average tag team skill.

Rodney P: You do KNOW what a Royal Rumble is, right?

Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course I do. I’ve had the mimes prepping for it the entire time you were off navel gazing on that detestable island nation of Japan.

Rodney P: That’s great Francis. H-how have you been doing that exactly?

Francis didn’t notice the trepidation nearing fear in his assistant’s voice. Francis’ expression grew clever and sinister at once.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I’ve set our mimes to hide in my newly refurbished plantation mansion. They are to attack us unawares, when we least suspect it like a violent treasure hunt.

Francis’ fingers played together evilly as he grinned. Rodney blinked.

Rodney P: So, ostensibly what you’re saying is two tag team wrestlers, trained assassins for all intents and purposes, are hiding somewhere in your house waiting to jump out and kill us?

Francis Ford Cuppola: I wouldn't put it that way. But... yeah.

Rodney grew concerned.

Rodney P: Francis, doesn’t that train us instead of them?

Francis’ eyes searched blankly elsewhere in the limo for an answer that wasn’t self-evident to him.

Rodney P: Cause we’re doing all the work. They just have to lay in wait and surprise us with a dirty choke or something.

The limo started to slow. The window slid down. Both Francis and Rodney peaked out with different expressions at what was before them. Francis’ pride beamed at the overhauled, massive mansion on an expansive plantation ground that sat before them. Rodney grew worried as his imagination set to work picturing what lay in wait inside.

Rodney P: Francis, this is a terrible idea.

Francis Ford Cuppola: What? It's all kosher. They’ve had a week to acclimatize themselves to the temperature inside the house.

Rodney P: They’re not goldfish, Francis.

Francis’ blank stare trailed back into the limo.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.

Rodney figured he really didn’t, shaking his head as they exited the car.

They entered the spacious front foyer of the mansion still debating.

Rodney P: All I’m saying is you don’t even know what a Royal Rumble is. You might want to at least consider starting the mimes off on more conventional training before you go reinventing the wheel.

Francis considered with a slow nod of disappointment.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay.

He spoke up, his voice booming through the cavernous mansion.

Francis Ford Cuppola: COMME ÇI! COMME ÇA! MIMES! THIS IS YOUR EMPLOYER SPEAKING. Peep the echo, Rodney?

Francis seemed pleased with himself. Rodney’s eyes, as you may have guessed, rolled.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I AM ORDERING YOU TO COME OUT THIS INSTANT!

Francis hoped to catch a mime off guard as he opened a coat closet and a dozen coats spilled onto the floor at his feet. Francis shrugged back at Rodney, lifted his arm into a readied karate chop, and slowly crept into the nearby living room.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I KNOW THAT I TOLD YOU NOT TO LISTEN TO ME IF I EVER TOLD YOU NOT TO ATTACK ME AND RODNEY UNSUSPECTINGLY. I’M NOW TELLING YOU TO LISTEN TO ME!

Rodney bemusedly watched Francis as the well-dressed elder stalked the living room, overturning couch cushions expectantly and looking inside of the curio cabinets no human being could possibly fit inside.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I AM WARNING YOU! DO NOT ATTACK ME!!!

Francis had surveyed all the nooks and crannies of the immaculate and gorgeously decorated living room area before he looked to Rodney and listened carefully. Rodney’s arms had neatly folded across his chest throughout the undertaking.

Rodney P: You know they’re going to kill—

Francis Ford Cuppola: Shhhh-shhh.

An eerie stillness settled between them before Rodney watched Francis’ raised and readied karate chop swing suddenly into a broom closet after he opened the door and instead of attacking mimes, he was met with an errant collection of broom and mop handles which spilled onto him. Francis shook his head, left the mess, and wandered back to Rodney.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You know, I really don’t think they’re going to hear me, Rodney.

Rodney P: Because they’re mimes, right?

Francis shook his head as he thought about it.

Francis Ford Cuppola: They could be anywhere by now. This mansion has over 34 rooms not including restrooms.

Rodney P: Why did you refurbish a century plantation home?

Francis Ford Cuppola: Two centuries, actually. I can’t stand old things.

Francis thought about it as he glanced over the expansive hallway in the hopes he might spot a mime camouflaged with the upstairs wall. Rodney watched his employer with an increasing blend of annoyance and whimsy at the sheer magnitude of ignorance radiating from the man. Francis growled.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Damn these mimes. You know they got 16 people in this Battle Royal? That’s 16 people they have to prepare for, including themselves! I don’t want these mimes to make a fool of me, Rodney. I have a reputation to uphold. And now they’re going to be unprepared because we spent all of our training time playing hide and seek. Was this your idea, Rodney?

Rodney, a 6’2 colored man from the southwest of London, England, used to having to scratch and claw his way through life, would normally sock this octogenarian in the mouth for repeated foolishness by now, but Francis gave him little chance to stay angry enough.

Francis Ford Cuppola: It’s not important. We’ll have to flush them out. Better go to the armory.

Rodney P: You have an armory?

Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course. Be on your guard.

Rodney P incredulously followed Francis’s primed and ready karate-chop as he led them both into a room whose walls were lined with weapons. Long swords, broad swords, axes, bows, crossbows, and antique suits of armor patterned the room, even a miniature ballista was set up in the center.

Rodney P: What the hell…?

Francis proudly plucked a Pilum off the wall and stood beside it’s length.

Francis Ford Cuppola: How about this? Do I look like badass, or what? A Pilum. Like Pilum up! Get it?

Francis chuckled to himself. Rodney could only shake his head as he walked the walls and inspected the implements with growing fascinated confusion.

Rodney P: Francis, why do you have all these medieval weapons?

Rodney looked to Francis who had fixed a knight’s helmet on his head and equipped a mace. His voice muffled through the shiny metallic visor.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I took them from the set of my movie Medieval On Your Ass, remember?

Rodney aimed an unloaded crossbow at Francis and wished he had a bolt handy.

Rodney P: Right, the one about the guy who travels back in time on a donkey. How could I forget?

Francis Ford Cuppola: *pleased with himself* Love that flick.

Francis struggled to remove the helmet. Rodney watched with a lack of surprise as Francis didn’t put the mace down, bumped the handle against the metallic full-helmet, and tried to squeeze it up and off his head unsuccessfully. Rodney could see this struggle lasting far longer than he intended to waste. Rodney set the crossbow down.

Rodney P: Screw the weapons. You do whatever you’re doing, I’ll find the mimes.

Rodney exited the makeshift armory back into the hallway with Francis giving up removing the helmet behind him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re right.

Rodney explored his way up the ornate stairwell to the second floor with Francis struggling with removing his helmet all the way up behind him.

Rodney P: So, Francis, while we look for our killers-in-waiting, tell me who else is in this battle royal?

Rodney asked behind him as he reached the landing.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Why does that matter?

Rodney shook his head at his employers continued ignorance before his eyes focused on the long row of oil-painted portraits mounted on the wall and stationed in order down the upstairs hallway leading to more chambers potentially concealing a dangerous mime. Rodney frowned as he looked at each one who clearly resembled Francis but from different time periods. One of a napoleon-looking Francis; another of an aristocratic looking pirate Francis selling something strange to confused looking natives in the new world, another of an officious looking Francis threatening a slave with a whip. Rodney grimaced as he looked closer and thought he recognized a familial resemblance. Rodney looked back at Francis who peered at him through the grates in his visor.

Francis Ford Cuppola: What?

Rodney wordlessly pointed to the picture and looked at Francis for an explanation.

Rodney P: What the hell is this?

Francis peered closer at the painting.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh, that’s—

Inexplicably and suddenly, two black and white striped sleeves broke through the painting as both men screamed in unison. Francis, being so close, found himself enveloped in a makeshift bearhug, gripped by white gloved hands.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, help a Mime’s got me!

A stunned Rodney watched as the mime, Comme Çi, on the other side of the wall pull Francis right through the shoddy construction leaving plaster and a gaping hole in his wake as Rodney looked through the hole after the pair. Rodney had but seconds upon hearing the silent footfalls of the second mime, Comme Ça, charging down the hallway at him, leaping and drop-kicking him back through the railing. Rodney clung to it precariously as the mime approached him with evil intent in his darkened eyes before pushing Rodney…

And the rest was pandemonium.

Out of breath, Francis and Rodney panted out on the lawn. The house behind them sat eerily still in spite of the obvious signs of a struggle that now marred the previously pristine exterior of the freshly refurbished home. Saved from the ordeal, such as they were, Rodney was covered in dust and debris, cuts and bruises and welts marred his features as he looked to his employer with both deep concern and intense frustration. Francis was stuck in his helmet looking exhausted clutching his arm like it was broken.

Rodney P: Are you all right?

Francis Ford Cuppola: I tell you, it was a lucky thing I was wearing this helmet.

Rodney P: You don’t say?

Francis Ford Cuppola: Yeah, it really shielded me from so many of that one mime’s blows.

Rodney P: How lucky for you.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I know. It probably would’ve helped you when Comme Ci, or Comme Ça, or whichever mime that was was smashing your face off that kitchen sink. Or the time when—

Rodney P: Francis will you shut up?!

The wind blew modestly between them. Francis lifted the visor on his helmet and peeked out, wounded, at his assistant who had never spoken up to him like that before. An, angry, silent beat hung between them.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, at least we know they’re ready for the--

Rodney shook his head and fired away.

Rodney P: Would you shut the fuck up?! You’re not a damn wrestling manager, old man. You? You’re, at best, a sub-par filmmaker. You think those mimes stand a chance against seasoned wrestlers? People like Stevie Harris, or Press, your supposed evil twin brother, or Kelsey Spencer? Real ass-kickers, Francis, not shit you shipped over from France cause you’re too senile and uninformed to find real, authentic, talented wrestlers?!

Mimes?! For real?! Those face-painted morons are going up against individuals who’s entire life revolves around training and physically improving themselves to be top competitors because they damn well have to be to keep up with the flow of this sport. That? In there? That wasn’t training, you dumbass. That was… I don’t even know what that was. Do you even have a single fucking clue what you’re doing in the wrestling business, Francis? Or how absolutely pointless all of what you’re doing is?! You’ll never see a single return on your investment in these carnies because your mimes can’t even cut you a single promotional video to SELL this match.

Francis looked hurt. The wind blew once more as Rodney’s anger simmered.

Francis Ford Cuppola: …well they are mimes, Rodney.

The anger boiled over.

Rodney P: Fuck it. I quit. You really are hopeless. You can go down with your sinking ship piloted by mimes all you want. I’m going to find successful candidates and start up my own gym or something.

Francis watched as Rodney dismissed him with a pained wave of his hand and made off up the long stony driveway. Francis watched with confusion before calling after him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney?

His assistant, his mainstay, his constant would-be sidekick didn’t look back. Rodney kept walking. Francis felt suddenly very alone.

Francis Ford Cuppola: But who’s going to help me film the Mime’s promo?

The visor on Francis’ helmet shut on it's own in the wind. The bars of the visor separated the dot Rodney Rodney became as he disappeared up the road. Francis stood on his lawn clutching his arm to his chest knowing already it was at least sprained, and glanced nervously to the house he’d invested so much money into that currently housed two waiting mimes still ready to attack him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: How the hell am I going to get them out of there?

Francis looked downward sadly as reality sunk in.


The camera is at an awkward angle. Awkward in the sense that it’s just a little off-center. Francis is filming. You can’t see it, but I may as well tell you his other arm is in a cast and hung at his chest with a sling. He’s not used to operating the camera, it would seem.

The French Mime Assassins stand in front of a dark background, the lighting is shoddy and obviously lacking in expertise. Undoubtedly, Rodney’s handiwork is missing from this production. But there the mimes stand looking dark and ominous into the lens.

Francis Ford Cuppola: (off screen) Okay, Mimes. Let’s talk about your opponents for this Battle Royal. Anyone in particular you want to start with?

One of the mimes, Comme Çi for the sake of argument, mimes an excited nod of his head before he points with a grim mug at the camera then slashes his throat.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Damn right. I don’t care if he’s my brother, you’re going to KILL Nirvana, hahahaha-wait.

As Francis realizes the danger posed to his own assumed flesh and blood, the other mime extends his thumb, makes a sad face and pretends to shove his finger painfully up his own ass.

Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s gotta be about Alexandra Kelly.

Comme Ça shakes his head angrily at Francis behind the camera before miming something long and cylindrical sliding in and out of his mouth while he rubs his stomach.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Ohhhhhh, okay. So then the other thing was about Bryan Williams!? I have no idea what’s going on here. Where’s Rodney when I need him?

One mime bends over; the other pretends to arrogantly spank the bent over mime.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Damn, I suck at charades. I dunno... Flaming Youth?! Is that you guys in the Battle Royal…? This is too weird, no wonder people have a hard time taking you seriously—hey, I just thought of something. What happens if you two end up having to face one another?

The mimes slowly stand up and glare into the camera, both mean mugging at Francis.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Whoa. I’m not the bad guy here. It’s whoever designed this match.

Comme Ça looks to Comme Çi and both seem to pout to each other over the thought of potentially having to go toe to toe.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Remember: No prisoners. Even if that means you have to face one another.

Reluctantly, the mimes nod, instantly breaking apart to threaten one another with fisticuffs. The camera jostles mildly, Francis growing nervous at the unpredictability of his charges.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I said maybe! You never know what’s going to happen in a Battle Royal now that I actually know what the match entails. You two could wind up getting thrown out right off the hop. (cursing under his breath, but the camera hears him) Good thing I bet on that Nova chick.

The mimes stare down before loosening up. Francis audibly clicks his tongue.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, that’s definitely the best I’m going to get out of you two—owww, my arm—today. Not like either of you mimes can actually say anything. Damn, I wish Rodney were here.

The camera visibly shakes again as Francis sighs loudly. You can hear the tremulous sadness in Francis’ voice as he readies to stop recording. The Mimes, one of them anyway, Comme Ça, looks inexplicably about to say something, a finger raised, his mouth open as if armed with something relevant to add as the camera frame drops downwards to view the floor before cutting.