Before he was Rafterman in Full Metal Jacket, he was Stomper. Kevyn Major Howard, when the cameras stopped rolling. And while it was the honor of a lifetime working with Stanley Kubrick, when the grandkids surround the rocking chair, waiting for the coughing fits to stop so he can proceed with the story of his life, they will be asking Grandpa Kev about that time he made history with Michael Winner. Screen time was precious, yes, and he was far from top billing. And fine, maybe the residuals won’t even cover the cup of coffee he uses to justify another morning. But for a time, that glorious, landmark summer of 1982, he took a bullet for art. Two, if we’re being accurate, but only the first truly lives on in our memory.
Fans and otherwise respectable human beings all know the line: “You believe in Jesus?” By God he does. And how. A cross to tell the world that while he’s raping, robbing, and selling smack to the neighborhood children, he’s reflecting on the Almighty. A lad that lost his way, but still makes good every Sunday. Maybe it’s for mom. Or a brother who left us too soon. Whatever the motivation, Stomper is a believer. A brother in Christ. And despite his rage and lust for revenge, Paul Kersey isn’t about to deny a man his eternal reward. “Well, you’re gonna meet him,” he sniffs, knowing full well there’s nothing he can do about the absurd loophole that allows the cruel and unusual to go to heaven so long as they affirm their belief. It’s an afterlife Kersey doesn’t have any use for, but he didn’t write the playbook. Stomper will be there, at the right hand of Jesus. Maybe he doesn’t want to be there quite yet, but Kersey has a gentleman’s code. Off you go, son. It’s time.
Okay, so Stomper is on the ass-end of one of the era’s great one-liners. Does that make him fit for the hallowed halls of Canton? Perhaps not, but for Kersey’s follow-up. Stomper is down. Dead as lunch meat. Food for the family of rats that gather nearby. Does Kersey leave him to his maker? No, sir. He shoots him again. Point blank. Forcing what can only be described as a post-mortem sit-up. Unnecessary doesn’t even begin to cover it. Stomper was gone, now his dear sainted mother can’t even give him an open casket funeral. Sure, Kersey’s daughter had Stomper’s musty scrotum as a final memory, but he left her alive. No one forced her to leap to her doom. Kersey’s casual cruelty completely flipped the scenario. A scumbag, now sympathetic. He didn’t have this coming.
I know, I know. Stomper also stole Kersey’s wallet. And gang-raped a maid. And there are at least three dozen high school kids stone dead because of his chosen profession. And? Dollars to donuts Stomper never knew his dad. And if he did, it’s likely a belt acted in lieu of encouragement. No real education. Scrapping and scraping in an economy that had no room for neanderthals bearing knives. Maybe syphilis ravaged what remained of his brain. We’ll see what the medical examiner has to say. But Stomper endures. Stands tall. Never achieved a goddamn thing, but few have left this mortal coil more memorably. We should all be so fortunate.
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