Dessicated Coconut

Basilisk Stare Fan Fic #1


Author’s note:  “Basilisk Stare”, a 12-minute film by Mis Kamieniak, depicts a man filming his wife as she seduces another man.  The majority of the action consists of the man staring into the camera viewfinder, obsessively watching and rewinding and watching the tape.  And fidgeting.  In a word, creep-o-rama.

So why write "Basilisk Stare" fan fiction?

Because it has never been done before.  Because the absurd challenge of writing interesting fiction about a guy who spends his entire life watching other people appeals to me.   And because my username initials happen to be the same as the filmmaker's first name.  Destiny beckons!

Since this is the only Basilisk Stare fan-fic in existence, I hereby declare it to be 100% canon.   *taps it three times with magic canon wand*




Basilisk Stare Fan Fic #1

by make_it_stop


Chapter 1




It was noon, and Basilisk Stare Guy was hungry.


He made a sandwich, and filmed it.


Then he filmed himself eating it.


Rewinding the tape, he watched the instant replay through the viewfinder.  Yes.  It had been a good sandwich.  There it was once more, sitting on the counter, wearing a tutu of frilly Romaine lettuce.  So innocent, so fragile.  So….doomed.  In the golden afternoon sunlight, the sandwich looked unbearably noble and poignant as it awaited its fate.


Then: the first bite.  The sound was off and he couldn't hear the crackle of the 11-grain bread or the gentle squelch of the artisan mayonnaise, but he could taste it once more.  Smacking, chewing, devouring, having.  Possessing.  Just looking at himself made him hungry all over again.  His breath grew ragged, his lips parted slightly, as he watched the last few morsels disappear into his mouth.  It was a magnificent performance, in the same league as Orson Welles.  He had captured it.  That sandwich was his forever.


He turned off the camera and raked a hand through his hair, thick and disheveled as winter wheat.  One shirt flap was starting to come untucked.


More, his subconscious whispered.  More.




Basilisk Stare Guy packed up his equipment, drove downtown, and set up across the street from Olin’s Bakery and Café, a popular lunch spot for nearby office workers.


He trained his 30-inch telephoto lens on the window and adjusted the focus. There was an attractive woman eating a calzone inside.  She hunched awkwardly over the plate, like a hyena huddled over a carcass, and read the latest issue of Marie Claire.  Women were always reading crap like that.  “Tame The Tiger: 600 Bedroom Tricks To Keep Him Coming Back For More” – who cared, when it was all over in thirty seconds anyhow?


When all was ready, Basilisk Stare Guy pushed “Record” and began fiddling with the knobs, breathing heavily.  His right hand groped in his pocket, found a package of crackers, and began crushing it nervously.

By pressing Forward and Rewind, he could make her put the fork to her mouth, then take it out.  Then put it back in.  Then take it out again.

In. Out.  In.  Out.

The crackers slowly turned to sand in his pocket.


Peppers, cheese, golden baked dough, slowly disappearing.

So beautiful.

So much more vivid and real and permanent on film.

In a few minutes, the woman would finish her lunch and dissolve back into the facelessness of her drab office job.  He, however, could relive this meal again and again and again.  From now on, any time he felt like it, he could make her eat.


Oh God, yes.  Yes.  Yess!!!!  Use the hot sauce, baby!


He didn’t notice the ominous shadow falling across the camera lens until it was too late.




“Three months in prison,” said the magistrate.  “However, since this is a first offense, and no actual harm was done to the victim, I am prepared to modify the punishment to fit the crime, in light of the unusual circumstances of the case.”


He handed down a videotape from the bench.


“Take this home, sit on the couch, and watch it for 90 days,” he said.  “It’s a film of a jail cell.”


On his way out of the courtroom, holding an ice pack over his swollen eye, Basilisk Stare Guy thought he saw the magistrate stash Exhibit A underneath his robes.




Dropping the tape onto the coffee table, Basilisk Stare Guy rubbed his wrists.  They were raw and sore where the handcuffs had dug in.  Stupid goon cop, shoving his head against the door frame of the squad car.  What was it he kept yelling?   Something about privacy, and spying on his sister. Whatever.  He'd show them all.


With studied efficiency, he screwed the camera together, and began filming the tape of his jail sentence as it sat there on the table.

Then he rewound, and watched the tape of the tape.

Then he set up a second camera and filmed himself watching the tape of the tape.

He took that tape, wired it into the VCR, and filmed the film of himself watching the tape of the tape.  With the other camera, he filmed the camera filming the film of the tape of the film of the tape.


At that moment, his wife walked in the door.


“You need professional help,” she said, shaking her head.




Years later, he would relish the image of the copy of the film of the movie of her saying that.



To be continued

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