CHRISTINE II: Hell Hath No Fury

[jwramc]

As some of you enjoyed my take on what I would want a Dirty Mary Crazy Larry remake to look like (if it can't be prevented entirely, and then only if I were in charge of the remake)... I thought some might like a peek at an unfinished sequel I've been trying to write for the last 15 years for 1983's "Christine".

This is a single chapter, taking place about 18 months after the events of the movie. It feature's Detective Junkins (Harry Dean Stanton's character) and the new Christine... no longer a '58 Fury, now a '59 Dodge as shown below (an identical colored '59 appears in the Stevie Ray Vaughan's video for Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g12GZ_Htn0Y). Chapter one explains the changed car, which I may post later. For now....some action.

Chapter Five:

      "How your heart beats, when you run for cover,
       You can't retreat, I spy like no other...."

   Stella's Diner was a bit further out than many better restaurants, but the charm was the attraction. Both Stella's and the diner's. She was the married mother of four ingrate boys that would rather fish than fuck. Big surprise as her husband taught them everything they knew- or thought they knew. They thought they knew a lot. So did Hank. And as soon as he got his 'big break', he was going to make a killing selling tackle and bait to the throngs of tourists that would flock to Drewer Lake (more recently known as Sewer Lake). That overgrown septic was no closer to being able to support life again than it was when Hank got the deal of the century on forty five 'prime' lake-front acres six years ago.
   As for the diner, it was a retired Erie Lackawanna passenger car, converted, as so many were, to food distribution duty back in the fifties. Stella blew her inheritance from her dad on the downpayment for it back in 1967. Business had never really boomed, but it'd been steady.
   Junkins stopped his cruiser in the handicap spot right outside the door. The sun was just rising and except for Stella's Bonneville at one end of the trailer and the cook's truck and the dishwasher's car at the other end, there were only two other cars in the lot. He was only going to be in and out for coffee, so screw it. The 'Handeez' had the whole balance of the lot to park in.
   He got out of the car and went in to sit at the counter. Stella was on the stool near the kitchen doors reading yesterday's paper with her back to the entrance.
   "Can I see your Health Inspection Certificate. please." He said.
   "You'll never take me alive, copper!" Stella spun and grabbed Junkins in a bear hug. He nearly spit out his cigarette.
   "Hey, stranger! Long time, no squeeze!"
   "Yeah,yeah. Well-shit- work ,you know? We just finished up a meat run on the interstate and I'm heading home now. Can I get a coffee?"
   "What's that?" She laughs and slaps his arm. He does lose the cigarette this time. He bends down and retrieves it off the floor, then glances around at the customers to see if their watching as he put it's back in the corner of his mouth. Stella brings the coffee and small talk.
   "A meat run? How bad?"
   "Nasty. Another dumbshit with no clue how hard it is to slow an eighteen wheeler. If they'd give 'em a few more inches, the fuckin' junk yard wouldn't be so full of flat Datsuns."
   "Well don't go into the gories on me. You know how I get. You want to eat?"
   "Nah. Coffee's good."
   "Aw, c'mon. How 'bout an omelette? Ham...some cheese? Home fries?"
   "Bacon?"
   "Ham."
   "Reject?"
   "The guy ordered ham, then claimed he ordered pancakes. Like I was gonna leave the omelette for free! Hah!"
   "Is it still hot?"
   "Just like me!"
   "Bag it. I wanna get home to bed."
   "Done, sweetie." Stella went into the back to bag up the food as Junkins glanced around again. This time he looked outside to see a big....no,  correction- HUGE black car across the roadway, sitting on the shoulder. It faced north, leaving it's driver's side and rear end visible from this angle. The steaming tailpipe meant it was still running, but no one was in it. He scanned what he could see of the parking lot but saw no one walking up to the entrance. Looking over the car again, at this distance, it looked a bit like the '58 Fury he'd dealt with years ago. This car was black, but the shape and size were similar. He shook off a chill and turned back to his coffee. Then he heard- or felt it.
   "Shitter!"

Continues next post...

[jwramc]

   He whipped around, staring at the car. Then the rear tires spit gravel into a plume behind the car as it lurched forward and swung into a tight turn, across the road and into the diner's lot. The few customers noticed the noise and watched as the car disappeared around the back side of the diner, fishtailing the whole way and raising a cloud of dust. It reappeared at the other end, going even faster now. But instead of going around the building again it shot toward the roadway, spun around at the lots edge and halted. The engine roared. Stella emerged from the back with food in hand and Junkin's screamed at her.
   "Phone!!"
   "What?"
   He jumped up and shoved past her to the greasy wall phone. As he dialed, the tires spun again. He watched the car as it made another lap of the diner and stopped at the side edge of the lot, facing the dishwashers's little sports car parked ass against the diner's end.
   "State Police, This is-" started a voice.
   "This is Junkin's- I'm at Stella's. I need backup, fast!"
   "Junkins? What the hell are-"
   The black car rocketed forward on a collision course with the sports car. As it impacted, the Dodge's nose bounced upward, still careening forward, and crashed through the end wall of the diner, throwing glass and other debris everywhere. The booths flew apart as if splinters of balsa wood. The car smashed down on what remained of tables and seats. The heavy guy with his blueberry-smothered hot cakes never knew what hit him as the Dodge slammed his seat from behind, throwing him forward, down and under it's wheels. The right fender smashed back onto the tire the moment it struck the end of the counter that now flew up and to the side in pieces.
   Junkin's dropped the phone and ran for the entrance. He wouldn't have made it if he'd tried to use the door. He dove through the large glass window and landed on the hood of his un-marked cruiser, glass raining down around him. Stella wasn't so lucky as the car finished the first half of the counter and hit her, sending her careening into the kitchen. The injuries she took from the car might have killed her anyway, but the impact with the stainless steel cabinet didn't help any. Gory was the word.
   Junkin's rolled of the hood, landing on his scurrying feet. He yanked open the door and jumped in. As he threw it into reverse, he glanced up to see the young couple in the window booth thrown up through the glass, landing on the gravel lot below. He punched the pedal, crossed the lot and entered the roadway backwards and sliding. When the tires caught the pavement, he slammed forward and prayed to Christ that this was another bad alcohol dream. It wasn't. It was Christine. Who else?
   Christine never slowed as she routed that railroad car, nor as she burst out the other end, using Stella's old Bonneville to break her fall. As she contacted the gravel, she jumped to the left and tore after the fleeing police cruiser.
   'How the fuck did this happen again?' Junkin's mind was a blur of useless information. No- thing he thought of made sense. Nothing about Christine ever did. All that made sense was running. This cruiser had never failed him before. He suspected it wouldn't matter.
   The sickening sound of metal contacting metal roared through his ears as his car jerked foreward and left a bit. In the mirror was that fucking car. But it wasn't the same. Paint? Yeah, the paint was black, but the car was different, too. Uglier. More insane. Did they actually build them like that on purpose? Sick Detroit fucks! Junkins fought to control the car as Christine struck again. Seeing a small opportunity, he yanked the wheel right, sending him onto the freeway entrance ramp. Christine took an extra millisecond to react. She missed the paved ramp but tore up along side it on the grass covered siding. And she was gaining.
   Junkins was doing well over one hundred as he reached the six lane blacktop and accelerating. Christine reached the end of the divider, smashing down the yield sign. She touched down on the pavement smooth, like when honey rolls off a spoon. Her body was flawless- again. As she closed on the cruiser, she flashed her headlamps, as if to indicate she wanted to pass. But with three lanes to choose from, that clearly wasn't her intent. She slammed the cruiser's rear harder this time. Junkins fought the wheel of his car to keep it from spinning out. Just as he regained control, she hit again, harder still.
   Up ahead, Junkins spotted a toll booth plaza. He hit his red light and siren, frantically flashing his headlights. The attendant of the one occupied booth hesitated, then hit the button to raise the flimsy wooden barrier. As he did, Christine slammed Junkins' car again. This time, he lost control. His car spun around, pinning him to his door. The transmission clicked furiously in protest as it wanted forward but the tires argued backward. The car began to slow, but was still doing over ninety when Christine moved along side to pass. Side by side the cars went through the plaza. She went though the open gate. Junkins' car smashed backwards through the booth, going airborne for maybe a hundred and fifty feet before slamming down, squarely on it's wheels. But sliding sideways, the tires caught ground and the car flipped over...and over again. After eight revolutions, the car slid on it's roof another hundred feet before it came to rest in the middle of the roadway.
   The booth attendant stood up, brushing off the debris that lay on him. No part of the booth now rose higher than his waist. He looked down the road to see the wrecked cruiser lying on it's top....and the mangled body of it's driver, about 50 feet from the car, resembling a bloody wet rag doll forced into the corner of a child's room. Christine never looked back. She wasn't done.

You might notice Christine is a tad more violent this time. This is because the original book also depicted her a lot meaner. The film only killed those that were directly involved in hurting her or Arnie. The book showed innocent bystanders weren't actively avoided. Christine was a bitch, through and through.

My story, tho, is a sequel to the film, not the book. This is because there were scenes in the book not included in the film- scenes I thought were better. So a couple of them are 're-cast' so that the scenes could be used in a sequel film, merely happening to different characters this time. Example- some of the death of Junkins above is a reworking of how Buddy and his crew are killed in the book. I also used Darnell's death in the book as inspiration for how Arnie's father gets killed in my story.

Hope you enjoyed it.  

[69 OUR/TEA]

I thought there was a movie continuation/remake in the works ? Thought Cooter talked about it???

[jaak]

I like the "Hell Hath No Fury" title, that's cool. But come on, the car can't change, that would be like watching a DOH remake with an orange Duster or Satellite.

I thought there was a movie continuation/remake in the works ? Thought Cooter talked about it???

I missed that thread.... please chime in Cooter!

Jason

[jwramc]

I like the "Hell Hath No Fury" title, that's cool. But come on, the car can't change, that would be like watching a DOH remake with an orange Duster or Satellite.

No, no- not a remake. A sequel- continuation. If they did do a Dukes sequel that saw the Charger finally destroyed, and another car built to take its place...I'd be fine with that, if the reasoning were believable and the whole new story enjoyable (and it would help stop the continued destruction of 2nd gen Chargers!! )

My idea isn't that the car 'becomes' a different model. The idea is that Christine's soul resides where she speaks...through the radio. And what we don't see at the end of the first film is that the junkyard worker (the one with the boom box on his shoulder) removed Christine's radio before the car was crushed. And since this removed her soul, the crushed cube never reforms (despite the little death rattle we see in a close-up). Instead, the radio spends the next year on a parts shelf at the yard until a 19ish kid comes in looking for a radio for his '59 Dodge project car... and so Christine's reincarnated instead of repaired.

For the start of the film, I imagined the expected 50s music playing as the credits fade in and out over a black screen except for the green illuminated radio face taking up the bulk of the view- an extreme close-up. When the credits end, an off-screen door opens, letting the black background be seen as a junkyard office, and the radio is seen sitting on a shelf, under a pile of other radios. A split second after that light comes in, the radio light goes out and all music ends. This is the scene with the kid and his estranged weekend dad showing up to find a radio.

Once home, we see the Dodge is nearly as bad off as Christine was found in the first film, but in the father's garage. The kid works on it on weekends (as he lives with mom many miles away) and hasn't gotten very far. The kid installs the radio, tests its play, and as he leaves the garage, the car is behind him, looking significantly less degraded... she's already making repairs herself (tho this first time, we just notice she looks better. We don't see anything moving or reforming, etc).

Anyway- that's the logic I used to justify the change... simply because I love the angrier styling of the Dodge.

[jaak]

Cool, I get what your saying now.
I do agree with you....the 59 Dodge does have an 'angry' look.

Jason

[jwramc]

I even have an excuse for the color choice....it being black signifies evil (as she approaches, black is up front)... and there's blood left in her wake (the red toward the rear). A little obvious? Ok, but the combo is totally badass. In fact, I first saw the car and this color combo in the SRV video I linked above, and that got me thinking on writing a sequel using exactly that car.  Thank you, Stevie! RIP!

[mauve66]

waiting for the full book

[jwramc]

Me, too.  It seems to come in starts and fits. No flow whatsoever.

Another chapter coming shortly...

[jwramc]

Chapter Nine:

   The Cunningham house is cold. It has been for two years, and before that was barely tepid. Outwardly, it is as any other middle-class home in the area. A two car garage where only one car fits. The Volvo always parks outside. The lawn is neat if not smart. The colors follow suburban form- no boat-rockers live here. Truth be told, nobody really lives here anymore.
   The sound of knives and forks contacting everyday dinnerware clatters away while the man and woman of the house consume, well, whatever it is they are consuming. They eat, but they don't enjoy. They wallow in a haze of emptiness that fell on them two years ago and never lifted. Arnold, for all his flaws and failings, was their beloved son. They're only son- only child. And long ago forgotten would be those last few months of disrespect and outright disobedience if it hadn't culminated in his senseless death behind the wheel of that God-damned car. Mom knew it was stupid to blame a lifeless, inanimate object for his death. She'd have thought anyone crazy for blaming a car for an accident. But she never could rectify that belief with the naggings of mother's intuition that saw the red heap that very first night, and instantly despised it- not for its ugliness, though there was plenty of that. No, she didn't recognize it then, as she was too practical for feeling so deeply. She'd been the one with a plan- with a crisp but loving logic. She knew what was good for Arnold. For herself, and her husband, too. But she knows now what she only felt then. That battered piece of shit was going to ruin everything she'd been carefully orchestrating for the prior twenty years. And it did.
   Dad had always been the one to show emotion. He wasn't a blubberer that cried watching soaps, or the guy that wouldn't take the cat to be put down when it was far-gone sick. He was practical enough. But if you were to bet who'd smile or cry first under proper stimulation- you'd bet on him. And as fate would prefer, with its ironic humor, it was Dad who shut-down when Arnie died. He hadn't been one to stand up to his wife those few times he knew she was wrong, and perhaps Arnie bore the penalties of Dad's failure to back the kid up. But Dad always meant well. Now, if the world ended tomorrow, he wouldn't comb his hair for his meeting with Saint Peter.
   The phone rang and Mom sneered and stared as Dad wiped his mouth, placed his napkin on the tablecloth and left to answer the call. She took a sip of wine in consolation, then surrendered that dinner was over. She slid her chair back a bit, put her utensils onto her plate, stood and carried them to the kitchen. She scraped the plate off into the trash basket which was nearly full, and placed everything into the sink. Then, she leaned on the edge of the sink with her hands, and looked out the window at nothing at all. Tears welled-up, but didn't fall. A deep-breath took care of that. Across the driveway, beyond the gap between the garage door and the front of the Volvo, she saw one of the garbage cans. She turned and pulled the liner out of the kitchen trash can, tied the bag neatly without need for a twist-tie, then headed for the side door. Just as her free hand was about to grasp the knob, three loud knocks on the glass of the door caused her to drop the bag in surprise. Her hand over her heart as she swallowed the fright, her husband yelled from the foyer.
   "You alright?"
   "Fine." She responded "It's Barry."
   "Oh, for Pete's..." Dad replied his voice trailing back into the phone conversation.
   She opened the door to see Barry, the 18-year-old young neighborhood boy with Down's Syndrome. The son of a neighbor down the street, he was a year younger than Arnie, and use to help with Arnie's chores whenever he happened upon them being performed. Arnie did better than tolerate Barry, tho. He was kind to him. He didn't always have the patience to be around him, but he felt they shared a bit of something. Arnie felt Barry was to Arnie as Arnie was to the rest of the world. And Arnie felt if he was good to Barry, the world might get better for Arnie. Not quite selfless, but certainly more than most were doing.
   "Hello, Miss Cummingham. Is Arnie home?" Barry asked- for what could have been the thousandth time, and certainly was better than the hundredth time since Arnie died. His mispronunciation of her married name had always been an irk, but it was a far cry better than the other version Arnie had told her that the kids at school would call him. Thankfully, Barry wasn't so creative.
   "No, I'm sorry, Barry, no. Arnie isn't back yet. But I promise that when he does come home, I will have him call you first. You don't have to keep stopping by. I won't forget, hon."
   "Yea. Will you tell him I was here?" Barry recited.
   "Yes, Barry. As soon as he comes back, I will."
   "OK, then. Good night then. Bye." Barry turned and headed down the driveway, turning left as he cleared the end of the tall hedges. Mom composed herself, lifted the garbage bag again and headed toward the garbage cans. As she passed between the garage door and Volvo, she heard a long screeching sound from down the street. She turned her head to see a large, old car- dark in color, roaring along the street, and rather than passing the Cunningham driveway, the car suddenly darted left, turning into the driveway. Mom's eyes didn't squint in the beam of the four bright headlamps. She knew what, no- who this was. She dropped the bag again and quietly muttered-
   "You."
   Christine hit the Volvo with enormous force, launching it forward. Its bumper broke both Mrs. Cunningham's knees, folding her forward onto the hood as the car was hurled through the garage door. The second car within was also shoved forward against the back of the garage, but it rebounded a bit, throwing the Volvo back outside. As the Volvo came to rest, Mom slid off the hood and slumped onto her ass between the two cars. Pieces of the garage door panels were littered around her. Dazed, she glanced down at her twisted legs as Christine backed out of the driveway.
   Dad hurriedly told the caller 'call ya back" and slammed the phone down. He ran though the dining room and kitchen to the side doorway, just in time to see his wife looking over to him as Christine came at the Volvo again. A split-second later, his ears filled with the sounds of twisting steel, shattering glass and a sickening 'pop' that seemed louder than all else. His eyes closed reflexively just before the impact, and he felt his face sprayed by warm motor oil. When his eyes opened, a moment later, the two Cunningham cars were joined end-to-end just inside the garage. Nothing he saw there seemed to be his wife, and he then realized he didn't have oil on his face at all.

Continued next post...

[jwramc]

Horrified, he turned and ran into the house, through the kitchen and dining room. Instinct told him that altitude was his best defense, and he headed for the stairs.
   Christine again raced backward down the driveway just as Barry appeared at the end of the hedges, brought back by all the commotion. She sped right past him into the street, turned her front wheels, then charged across the lawn, headed for the home's front door. She skipped over the one step and slammed into the front doorway just as dad was reaching the base of the stairs. The door was thrown into the foyer in several jagged pieces, some of which bounced off the stair railing and living room archway. The largest piece settled onto the stairs, forming a ramp that covered the bottom five or six steps. Mr. Cunningham raised his arms to protect his face from the smaller debris that sprayed at him- some of it glass from the two tall panes that framed the door at each side of the doorway. The door frame itself had been punched inward about a foot by the impact, and the header was now barely attached at all. The slightest touch would likely bring the entire frame crashing down.

   Barry reached the front of the Volvo and looked beneath it. After a moment of silent terror, Barry shrieked at the top of his lungs. A loud, unnatural, mournful scream of sheer terror and lack of understanding. And when the shriek ended, he took a deep breath, and shrieked again, frozen in place. Again, and again.

   Realizing the stairs were impassable- at least enough that using them would be too slow and the car would surely catch him, Mr. Cunningham turned and ran down the hall toward the television room and the backyard. He would run straight to his neighbor's house, or around it, and might lose Christine in the short time he were out of her sight. Christine backed away from the door only a car length or so, then charged forward again. Now the door frame collapsed and came apart, falling around her. She kept on course, through the living room archway, then turned slightly right to head toward the sliding glass doors to the backyard- the very doorway Mr. Cunningham was just then running through. Below, in the basement, the joists bent and even cracked under her weight. Only her continued forward motion likely kept her from landing on the long-unused boxes of Christmas decorations and Arnie's unbuilt car models, which were being covered by a cloud of saw dust and good old fashioned regular dust raining down from the strained rafters above.
   He glanced back to check his lead and realized she was gaining too quickly- he'd never reach the other house- and how much good would it do if he did? She had routed his home in seconds. Another would make no difference. As his head turned again to front, he realized the pool...the POOL!
   He leaped over the edge and plunged into the still-warm water. His sweater and thick khakis made surfacing a chore, but his head broke the surface facing away from his home, and as he swung his arms beneath the surface to rotate around, there was Christine. The sliding doors were a shambles, glass and twisted framework was strewn about her hood and the ground under her. Her front bumper stuck out over the water, her engine raced loudly, revealing her annoyance at his resourcefulness. Her front tires were stopped at the very edge of the poolside, and black skid marks trailed behind them, several feet behind the car who's rear half was still inside the house. She had only, just barely stopped in time.
He slowly made his way to the center of the pool- the safest logical place, he thought. Christine headlights lit the side of the neighbor's house brightly. In the glow, a window opened and Hank leaned out, using a hand to block the beams of light.
   "Ed! Hey- are you okay over there?" Before he'd asked, Hank knew the question seemed stupid, considering the ruckus he'd heard and that there seemed to be a car sticking out of Ed's family room.
   "No- oh, God, no. Hank! Call the police!" Ed shouted back, treading water with real effort.
   Christine slowly crawled backward, receding into the house. But as the floor shuddered beneath her, and more snapping sounds erupted, she launched rearward faster and raced through the family room, the living room and smashed through the front wall with the large bay window, depositing the couch and one end table on the lawn before rolling over them and flattening both. She swung her front end about, letting the sides of her front tires tear up more lawn as she stopped. Then she went forward at a leisurely pace, turning right to go around the house.
   Ed had begun to make his way toward his house, and was about to touch the poolside when the sound of her engine and the glow of her lights began to intensify at the corner of the house. He moved back toward the pool's middle again as she came into view. She was practically coasting past the space between the two homes until she had split the difference, then turned to face the pool again, this time from one end of it. She continued to roll forward slowly.
   Ed knew she wasn't going to come into the pool. She'd never get out. And could she even survive being submersed if she found a way out later? He began to think his plan could be flawed- but only a little. He was sure his course of action was his best chance for survival, and he remained convinced until the moment he realized his view of her was being split vertically up the middle by something.
   Christine continued to roll down the grassy embankment toward the pool, stopping immediately after her bumper tapped the 8-foot tall, wrought iron lamp post- one of two that he had added to make night swims more inviting. He'd thought them even a little romantic- 8 years ago or so when things like that mattered at all. Her tap was exactly enough. The base of the post deformed around the bolt holes just the right amount, and the post began to tip. The jolt caused the light bulb itself to blowout, and it went dark as the post toppled forward. Ed knew the dark bulb would make no difference. He also knew it wasn't possible to get to the side of the pool and to clamor out fast enough. His arms stopped struggling to stay afloat and he'd barely begun to sink at all when the head of the post broke the surface of the water. His eyes rolled up to show only white as he convulsed and sank. The lights of Ed's house dimmed and rapidly pulsed a bit. The exposed wires at the base of the post began to smoke, and Christine reversed up the embankment, over the curb and into the street again. She reeled around and headed away as the sound of emergency sirens rose up from the opposite direction.
   Hank came out of his back door and ran over to the side of the pool. Through the wavy surface, he could see Ed, arms out, laying on the bottom of the pool. As he was about to kneel, he could feel the hair on his neck and arms rising, and he noticed the burning smell coming from the base of the post. Before he could think to do anything more, he heard the wailing coming from Ed's driveway and ran between the house and garage to find Buddy standing on the other side of the mangled Volvo. Just then the first patrol car arrived, pulling into the driveway and stopping a few feet short of the mangled sedan. Hank knelt down to look under the car where it appeared Barry's eyes were fixed. In the glow of the patrol car's headlights, he saw what Barry did. He rose almost immediately, turned, and as the officer ran up beside him, vomited on the mat at the Cunningham's side door.

[Cooter]

I thought there was a movie continuation/remake in the works ? Thought Cooter talked about it???

While it is fascinating to talk and such, we (the ChristineCarClub) have spoken to Richard Kobrits and there is NO REMAKE/Continuation planned at this time.

Yes, there have been many who would like to see Rob Zombie direct any remakes. We however feel this would take away from the original movie. It was scary when it came out because it left things to the most scariest of places, your imagination.

Blood a guts flying everywhere would be no better than the "Slasher" movies of the late 80's....

With CGI nowadays, it is too easy to make this happen without the actual distruction of real cars. No need to "change" the movie car. i mean DMCL wouldn't mean the same if it were a Ford Pinto now would it?

[jwramc]

CGI? Count me out. It always looks fake. Everytime. Perish the thought completely. And I agree, no need to show the gore. A well-placed sound is all you need to suggest the worst in a viewer's mind.

And no 'need' to change the car, just a preference and desire. I don't think I'd ever suggest the Lancer is to Fury what a Pinto is to Charger. You may have meant to type 'GTX'...but then, as I'm writing a sequel, not a remake, a new car would certainly be required after the end of the first DMCL, yes?

Lastly, having read the book, it's clear King's reference to Christine being a '58 is mistaken as he sites features specifically not on a '58 and indeed found on a '57. With one mistaken recollection, even King changed the car he meant to write about. The real Christine?...

[Tilar]

I like the "Hell Hath No Fury" title, that's cool. But come on, the car can't change, that would be like watching a DOH remake with an orange Duster or Satellite.

No, no- not a remake. A sequel- continuation. If they did do a Dukes sequel that saw the Charger finally destroyed, and another car built to take its place...I'd be fine with that, if the reasoning were believable and the whole new story enjoyable (and it would help stop the continued destruction of 2nd gen Chargers!! )

The Omni comes to mind. They weren't worth a flip when they were new.

[jwramc]

The Omni comes to mind. They weren't worth a flip when they were new.

I'd be forced to disagree there, too. I found Iacocca's FWD cars of the 1980s to be exactly what they promised: Affordable, economical and reliable transport in a basic and not unattractive form. In fact, my mother's former '87 Omni America was last spotted about 30minutes from here a few years ago, then sporting 330,000miles on the original 2.2L and auto tranny. I myself had, and would love to find again, a clean '82 Charger 2.2 with the faux scoops and red stripes over black. That car was beautiful, handled well, couldn't be stopped in snow...and everytime I needed a part, whether a rotor, a caliper, a muffler....it was always $20 at the parts store. I long for a car of it's ilk again. My '96 Stratus was as close as I've had since...another diehard.

I'd love to have a clean 2.2 Charger or Rampage today as a weekend runabout.

[Ghoste]

Exactly.  It may not seem a great car now but it was the right car for the time and fact is, the Omni and the K car saved Chrysler from extinction.

[jwramc]

...and the Charger had TWO doors, thank you very much. 

[Tilar]

I tried selling a good running 84 2.2 omni/charger when I sold my house in Texas a year ago... Couldn't even get scrap price out of it so when I sold the house I signed the title and left it in it.

[jwramc]

Was that the 4-headlight version? Never liked those...and apparently Shelby didn't either as his models stuck with the 2-headlight look 'til the end.

[Fred]

I even have an excuse for the color choice....it being black signifies evil (as she approaches, black is up front)... and there's blood left in her wake (the red toward the rear). A little obvious? Ok, but the combo is totally badass. In fact, I first saw the car and this color combo in the SRV video I linked above, and that got me thinking on writing a sequel using exactly that car.  Thank you, Stevie! RIP!

Just thinking the same thing...............she looks a whole lot meaner in the black & red. sweet! 

[aussiemuscle]

Cool, I get what your saying now.
I do agree with you....the 59 Dodge does have an 'angry' look.

Jason

no need to muck around with that hideous face (eg 'Wheels of Terror' they pushed the front down in the middle to make it look angry)

jwramc
love your get out clause with the radio being salvaged from Christine. brilliant. it was the focus in the movie, so that really works for me.

[Tilar]

Was that the 4-headlight version? Never liked those...and apparently Shelby didn't either as his models stuck with the 2-headlight look 'til the end.

Yeah, 4 headlights. Red with black interior. I never cared how many headlights they had as long as they all light up when I pull the switch.   Actually I only bought it for the engine cause my Lebaron needed one after my wife drove it 20 miles with a busted radiator hose... Then I never did fix it. I figured if she were dumb enough to do something like that she didn't need her little convertible.

[Kern Dog]

I like the "Hell Hath No Fury" title, that's cool. But come on, the car can't change, that would be like watching a DOH remake with an orange Duster or Satellite.

Hey, hey....Whats wrong with an orange Duster?

[Cooter]

Lastly, having read the book, it's clear King's reference to Christine being a '58 is mistaken as he sites features specifically not on a '58 and indeed found on a '57. With one mistaken recollection, even King changed the car he meant to write about. The real Christine?...

King didn't do the movie, Carpenter did with Kobrits. King was an idiot when it came to cars. Even kobrits got it wrong on the DVD version calling Christine a 157 Fury. She was neither in the movie. The Fury wasn't offered in 1957 OR 1958 In red and white. Notice how Christine didn't have ANY MARKINGS on her. She ressembled more of a Belvedere than a Fury. King also mentioned in the book that Christine had a "Hydromatic" trans in her and 4WD too...NONE of which were offered on the '57 or '58 Plymouth...The movie and book are different for obvious reasons.

[jwramc]

Odd. I don't recall a mention of 4WD. I know she drove out of the hands of the guys lifting the rear axle off the ground...but I always took that as a 'morph' she did on the spot, not that she got a front pumpkin at the factory. I may have to re-read that long, long, droning book again. The Fury/Belvedere thing- yep, King was all over the place. I guess he just wanted that name really bad, screw accuracy.

I loved the movie myself and the Plymouth. Still do (as evidenced by these three cars in my diecast collection...

Ertl's Christine (with tinted windows from the night scenes in the film).


My custom-made '68 Charger (Dennis' car)


And this work of art I commissioned from a far better customizer than I...


Anywayz, my story's changes were a choice to first restore her much nastier side in the book, and the change in make/model was, first, because the Dodge did look more evil at first glance, but was still a 'sister' to the original, so the radio idea might be plausible, as in it might actually fit the Dodge's dash... and the more I thought about it, the better I thought it worked for my plot. In the chapter's above, Junkins seeing the Plymouth would've meant instant recognition. I like the idea that he notes a resemblance, but makes no assumption 'til he hears the word. And Mrs. Cunningham seeing the Dodge and instantly knowing it IS Christine is a nod to her women's intuition...that she was always right about "that car". And like the Chargers, I think enough Plymouths took the beating last time. I wouldn't mind if a handful of dressed-up Coronets get plowed under for the sequel. (And wouldn't this create another batch of ChristineCarClub members and a little variety in the ranks...the way a yellow RoadRunner at Dukesfest is a welcome change of pace?) It isn't a take-away from the Plymouth. It's an expansion to include the Dodge.

Now, if somebody can suggest a funky way to have the Plymouth make a cameo appearance, I'm all ears! What it can't be is that both 'living' cars exist at the same moment somehow- that would be cheesy. Assume the Plymouth is crushed and long-gone recycled. It's now two and half Datsuns.

The only thing I've come up with is a little humor moment where a daylight chase scene comes past a cruise-in or car show, and a '58 Plymouth is there, in the row closest to the road. The Dodge suddenly abandons the chase to come to a stop in the middle of the roadway and just idles...camera is close to the Dodge's left pair of headlights and the Fury is a few dozen feet away, behind and to the left of the Dodge, soaking up sunshine. Camera lingers here, as if the Dodge is remembering the connection. A brainless spectator, looking at a car next to the Plymouth leans back, his ass resting against the Fury's fender...his huge batch of keys dangling from his belt putting a nick in the Plymouth's paint (we've all seen this guy!). The Dodge's engine revs loudly, the tires begin to smoke...the nitwit glances over to see the Dodge as it pulls away, getting back to the chase. It's as if the Dodge made a note to come back and see this guy later. The guy, still leaning, jumps to attention when the Fury's horn sounds loudly. He glances first at the front end of the car with a 'how did that happen?' look on his face. He then sees (wouldn't this be a cool cameo?) Keith Gordon (the original Arnie)...

... sitting in the driver's seat, turning to say "Hey- if you can't stand up, go find a bench." As the guy walks off, Keith says, under his breath... "Shhhiiit head". (Cut back to the chase in progress)