Wickett the Ewok is thirsty for the blood of Mickey Mouse. Or, any mouse, really. Ewoks love to eat mice. I had the privilege and horror to meet Mr. Wickett, or, as his friends call him, Jeff, earlier this week.
The meeting had been arranged by a coworker of mine. I had seen The Last Jedi in theaters 14 times. He has listened to me explain how it was a better movie than Godfather Pt. III. “Luke Skywalker got out! They couldn’t pull him back in! Genius!”
I was surprised to find that Jeff lived in Chicago. I met him at the Forrest Preserve near the Harlem and Irving Plaza Mall. Jeff was having problems waddling, so I picked him up and carried him like a baby to the Starbucks in the mall. I was excited. We sat down to chat over venti vanilla lattes. From the start it was clear that Jeff was upset.
“I get so upset over how things went down. I have to drink decaf. Who drinks decaf latte? Liberals. That’s who! It’s time to drain the swamp.”
Jeff is a staunch supporter of Donald Trump.
“Look. I was brought into existence just to sell toys for a movie. I’m not brainless. But they trained us in guerrilla warfare for Return of the Jedi. I mean, let’s get down to brass tacks. If it wasn’t for our heroics in the Battle of Endor, there’s no way that Han would have brought the shields to the Second Death Star down. Without that, Lando doesn’t fly through the super structure and blow up that Death Star.”
I put my hand on Jeff’s paw and nodded. I’ve felt the same way for years.
“After that, George tried to make us cuddly, whimsical teddy bears. That just wasn’t us. There were a lot of dark times. Did you ever see that meme where they show a picture of me with a Care Bear and caption it “Faces of Meth.”
I was embarrassed, but I admitted I had.
“That was real, bro. I spent a lot of time living in dumpsters, smoking meth, and kidnapping children in Napa Valley for the ransom money.”
I took a sip of my latte and started to tear up. Was I making a connection to a childhood hero? I was I just afraid of him? I asked Jeff why he wasn’t in any of the prequels. Surely there was room for a cameo.
“I thought the same thing, bro. I started taking acting classes. I worked out. I got jacked. Then I just waited. I finally called Lucasfilm.”
Jeff recounted how George Lucas had told him that Ewoks were just too divisive to be included in a new film.
“We were devastated. But the prequels were bantha poodoo. So we moved on and served our country.”
Jeff recounted the time he spent working as a guerrilla warfare contractor for Blackwater during the Iraq War.
“The stuff I saw in Fallujah, bro. It still haunts me.”
The conversation continued in a Lyft ride. Jeff had something he wanted to show me, so I strapped him into a child safety seat that was kindly provided by the driver and we got on our way.
“All of the insurgency stuff, bro. That was hardcore. We lost so many a Ewok over there. But one good thing that came out of it was all the media exposure. Sure. Most of the reporters thought we were foul, dangerous demons, but they’d teach us how to use all of their equipment. All we had to do was hold them at gunpoint or cut one of their faces every so often.”
I gulped a little bit. Having seen Return of the Jedi dozens, if not hundreds, of times, I knew what Ewoks were capable of. Did Jeff see me as an ally? My name is Luke, after all. Or, did he see me as a threat to the tin deity C-3PO? I was pulled out of this foggy headspace by an argument between Jeff and the Lyft driver.
“Hey, buddy. I don’t allow that in my car!”
“What is this? A Prius? I’m just recharging!"
Recharging for Jeff meant snorting cocaine from a Jar-Jar Binks spoon that kids could have gotten in a box of Honey Nut Cheerios in the late 1990’s. Jeff stopped, looked at me, and the regarded the spoon.
“Jar. Jar. Binks. Balderdash!
With that, Jeff rammed the spoon into the back of the driver’s seat. This cracked it into a shiv, which Jeff used to cut the slack of his child safety seat belt. Before I could react, that portion of the seatbelt was flung over the driver’s head. Jeff was trying to strangle him. There was a struggle. The driver hit the brakes. His child seat, left tenuously strapped to the car, flew through the front windshield with Jeff still in it. He rolled out, yelled for me to get out of the car, and then warned the driver.
“The Ewoks have short legs. And arms! But we have long memories! We shall not forget this day! Yup nub!”
At this point, I considered walking away. Literally walking. Jeff obviously had hip and joint issues. The trip through the windshield only could have worsened the condition. A form of instant rickets. Any pursuit of me would have led to his tiny, furry leg bones disintegrating into magical sadness dust in front of my eyes.
But I continued my journey with Jeff. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. What he had to show me could have been life changing. Plus. I had nothing else to do that day. Tuesdays, am I right?
We walked up on an abandoned receiving dock. I walked on my legs and feet. At this point, Jeff’s legs hurt so bad, he was walking on his hands. It was much, much slower than his normal, leggy waddle limp.
“We made a grand play! It’s a Shakespearean Tragedy type deal. We want friends to see it first. Are you a friend, Steve?”
“My name’s not Steve. It’s Luke.”
“Well, you, you look…like a Steve! Don’t you!”“Not really. No. I’m a Luke tried and true.”
At this point I started to notice more Ewoks coming out from behind bushes, trash cans, and an abandoned 1993 Jeep Cherokee Sport Edition. They were high. They were low. I was surrounded.
“Our play is called is called Ewok Justice: Episode I: Yub George Lucas’s Nub.”
“That’s so…nuanced.”
“We’ve been looking for someone to stand in for the final scene. The one where we beat George Lucas like a Storm Trooper in the final throws of the Battle of Endor. Want to be famous, Timothy?”
“My name is not Timothy! That’s not even the same amount of syllables as Luke.”
I started to edge away from the pack. Then a couple of Ewoks wandered out from the carcass of a deep, navy blue 1983 Cutlass Sierra. They were wearing masks meant to depict humans. But they were terribly contorted. I was reminded of Fitzcarroldo. Not the actual movie, but rather the YouTube videos of Klaus Kinske fighting crew members on the set. The mask’s looked like Kinske’s face. It made my fight or flight instinct take a hard pass on fight.
“You can’t escape us, Bruce!”
I began to admonish Jeff for getting my name wrong a third time. But I caught something in the air in the corner of my eye. It was an Ewok who had launched itself from the second story of the abandoned building. It yelled “Ayeyooooogah!”
I had time to easily take several steps out of the way. I watched as the kamikazeee Ewok landed headfirst on the ground not 10 feet away from me. A small pool of crimson starting to flow from his skull.
All was silent for a few seconds.
“Yub nub! I. Will. End. You!”
I began to briskly walk away. But I was stopped in my tracks at the sound of bones crushing. I turned around to see Jeff. He was laying on the ground. His hips had obviously become one with the Force. All he could muster was, “I shall be avenged, Bartholomew…”
I don’t know if Jeff died that day. I walked calmly to the local Subway restaurant and had a foot long turkey sandwich on Italian herb and cheese bread. The deal of the day was chicken breast. Although it is lower in sodium than the turkey sub, it is also lower in flavor. I pondered the day’s events. I came to the conclusion that it is difficult to meet your heroes. Sure, they could be amazing people who want to connect with their fans. But, in the final analysis, it is too big of a risk. You may meet someone who you believe is wholesome and awesome. But that image may have been make believe all along.