Early the next morning, Meryl left the hotel with a grin plastered across her face.
That joke from last night—she'd mock Nicholson with it for the rest of his life. Hell, she'd even write it down and slip it into his coffin after he died…
Too damn hilarious!
Shaking the bed so hard he couldn't walk—HA!
Too weak to even lift his own Dick—HAHA!
Dreaming he turned into a "Sperm"—BAHAHA!
Meryl couldn't stop laughing, even on the plane. Passengers shot her odd looks as she kept bursting into giggles.
Damn you, Jack Nicholson, making me look like a lunatic, HAHAHAHA!
———
On Set
"Goddammit, Jack! What's wrong with your hands? I told you to grab Leo by the collar, not his damn belt! Fuck! Lift your arms, you idiot!"
Martin Scorsese roared, sparing no mercy for his old friend. This was already the third time Nicholson had made the same mistake.
Nicholson grimaced internally: "I'd love to lift my fucking arms, but they won't goddamn listen!"
"Pfft—"
Martin, watching from the sidelines, barely stifled his laugh. Thanks to his demonic senses, he'd seen the old man shaking that bed half the night. Gotta admit—the guy had stamina.
Of course, he'd also witnessed all of Meryl's mischief.
After several more failed attempts, Nicholson finally surrendered.
"Sorry, Marty," he muttered to Scorsese. "Pulled a muscle in my arms. Might need a day off."
"Pulled a muscle?"
Scorsese blinked, then recalled Meryl's "visit" and scowled. "One day?"
"Yeah. Just one."
Turns out, Nicholson severely overestimated his recovery speed. Three days later, his arms still ached with every movement.
God only knows how he survived those three days—especially meals and bathroom breaks.
Soon, hotel staff leaked whispers to the press:
"Jack Nicholson Can't Take Care of Himself?"
"Requires Female Staff for Everything—Even Toilet Duties?!"
"Is He Dying???"
Paparazzi stampeded to the hotel like vultures, fearing they'd miss Nicholson's funeral.
Imagine their disappointment when Nicholson stormed out, very much alive and livid:
"I'm fine! Who the fuck said I was dying?!"
"My arms are injured, that's all!"
"Sexual harassment? Bullshit! I paid them to help me piss!"
"Male staff? Fuck no—I ain't letting some dude touch my junk!"
"Goddammit, this isn't a prank! Ask Martin—he'll vouch for me! Martin?! Where'd that little shit go?!"
Given Nicholson's notorious history, most reporters dismissed it as another of his stunts. Their articles spun it as a hoax—and infuriatingly, the public bought it.
"Cheer up, Jack," Martin (Meyers) clapped him on the shoulder. "At least The Departed got free publicity."
Leo added, "Your sacrifice will be remembered by the entire crew!"
Matt Damon solemnly nodded: "Rest in peace."
"I'M NOT DEAD, YOU ASSHOLES!"
The entire cast—including Scorsese—dissolved into laughter.
Scorsese grinned. "You delayed us for three days, Jack. Least you can do is be our marketing stunt."
What could Nicholson say?
"Fine. But only this once!" He jabbed a finger at Martin. "You—this is your fault, you little demon!"
Martin feigned solemnity. "Actually, I've been pondering a question."
Nicholson took the bait: "What?"
"Why does nobody believe you?"
"...Why?"
"Let me tell you a story. It's called The Boy Who Cried Wolf…"
Martin, ever the masterful storyteller (courtesy of his incubus charms), soon had the entire crew—including Scorsese—hanging on his words.
Nicholson listened most intently of all.
On the outskirts of the crowd, Scorsese's assistant Allen whispered:
"Sir, how does Nicholson get along so well with Martin? The age gap, the pranks—especially after Martin stood him up at the press conference?"
Scorsese sighed. "Because Jack's a bastard who loves other bastards."
Just look at Nicholson's inner circle:
Marlon Brando: Hollywood's original legendary asshole.
Roman Polanski: A fugitive sex offender.
Martin Scorsese: (Okay, they're friends, but Jack never hangs out with him for fun.)
Martin Meyers: A literal incubus in human skin. When he leans into bastardry, he out-bastards all of Hollywood combined.
"—And so, the boy's entire flock was eaten!" Martin concluded. "Now, what's the moral?"
"Ooh! Me!" Nicholson shot his hand up like an eager schoolboy. "It means if you lie and prank people too much, eventually no one believes you—just like me!"
Holy shit.
Even Martin—a literal demon—was floored by Nicholson's shamelessness. The man delivered the line with the enthusiasm of someone completely detached from the "just like me" part.
Truly, Nicholson was a legend in lack of shame. No wonder he'd mooned an entire stadium.
(Flashback: 1985 NBA Finals, Celtics vs. Lakers)
When Boston fans taunted Nicholson with "JACK GO HOME" shirts, the unhinged legend dropped his pants and bent-over to present his bare ass to the crowd.
The clip became a cult classic. As veteran commentator Lantz later said:
"If Jack ever reenacts that, I'd pay to see it."