Well, it’s that time of year again. Why aren’t you watching Die Hard right now? Here’s a little poem to get you in the mood (posters available on my Etsy store):
“The Night Before Die Hard” by Jeff Mitchell
‘Twas the night before Christmas and just off the plane: A wisecracking New Yorker, his name John McClane.
The no-nonsense cop came to town for the night, in hopes of rekindling romance with his wife.
A young man named Argyle drove John through L.A. to Century City for a festive soirée at Nakatomi Plaza: sex, blow, and champagne! But John and wife Holly argued over her name.
When out in the lobby there came such a clatter, John ran to the door to see what was the matter.
The staff under siege by a cadre so brash, away to the stairwell he flew like a flash.
And up the 34th floor, John did go, while ruthless Hans Gruber took over the show.
The boss Joe Takagi got shot for a code, to the vault with the bank bearer bond mother lode.
With a twist of his neck and a sniff of the air, Hans thought for a moment that someone was there.
A blitzkrieg of Germans, his henchmen they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Karl! Now Theo! Now, Kristoff and Marco! On, Tony! On, Uli! On, Heinrich and Franco!
To the 30th floor for a full-on assault! Now go for it! Open it! Open that vault!
So, doing his damnedest to not buy the farm, John scurried away and pulled an alarm.
Then Tony came searching and they fought toe-to-toe. Now John has a machine gun. Ho, ho, fucking ho.
Later, out on the roof, John called the police, who sent Al the cop down to help keep the peace.
A corpse through a window, crashed down on his car. “Welcome to the party, pal!” Al heard from afar.
The LAPD came out ready for war. And Hans threatened John to return the C4.
“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,” John teased with flair, then blew up some henchmen with a sweet-ass bomb chair.
Meanwhile, an asshole (Holly’s co-worker, Ellis) was a whole lot of dumb, a tad overzealous.
He sold out McClane without thinking ahead, then things went awry and Hans shot Ellis dead.
Shortly thereafter, when the Feds took the case, John met Hans by chance in a tense face-to-face.
Gruber’s goons interrupted, arriving en masse. John ran for cover, Hans yelled, “Karl, shoot the glass!”
The Feds cut the power, the heist was complete. John pulled shards of glass from his bare bloody feet.
And hostages brought to the roof as live bait were rescued by John from an explosive fate.
A gun taped to his back, John rescued his wife. Shot through a window, Hans held on for dear life.
A quick twitch of his eye while gasping for breath, poor Hans lost his grip and fell straight to his death.
Then John found his friend through smoke billowing flames, when out of the rubble staggered Karl, taking aim.
Al shot him without hesitation or hitch and said, “Merry Christmas, you son of a bitch!”