Alternate Ending for Tommy Boy

R.I.P. Thomas Callahan Jr., at least you tried

Tommy, now in the boardroom, with a set of flares strapped to his chest, is finally about to stop Callahan Auto from getting into the hands of his evil step-mother and her fake son (and real lover). “I make car parts for the American working man, because that’s what I am and that’s who I care about,” explains Tommy to a local news reporter. “That’s why I’m here, Ray. You see, back in Sandusky, Ohio, there are American workers at Callahan Auto. We make the best parts money can buy, and right now those workers are in danger of losing their jobs. They’re praying that somebody’s gonna step up and help ‘em.”

The reporter, fearing for his life, stares into Tommy’s eyes, wondering if he actually has the balls to take the entire building down with him. “Is that why you’ve strapped a bomb to your chest?” he asks.

“Oh! This? This isn’t a-”

A zing is heard from across the skyline, and before anyone has any idea of what’s going on, they realize that Tommy is on the ground, having left a splatter-pattern of blood, shards of white skull like so many tiny remnants of egg-shells, and brain matter, stuck to the wall as though it were chewing gum underneath a classroom desk. The board members wipe the sweat from their foreheads, knowing that they have survived what could have easily been the largest domestic act of terrorism since 9/11.

The SWAT team files in, the first of whom kneels down in front of Tommy’s lifeless, half-headed body, checking his neck for a pulse, almost for comic effect. “We got ‘im, boys,” he says, and the room explodes in applause at the valiant job done by America’s finest. A man from the FBI walks in, wearing sunglasses and a black suit, shouts, “It’s not over yet, people! We need to get the bomb squad in here to disarm this shit!”

As the board members file out, the detective in charge of Chicago’s anti-terror squad walks in and takes in the scene, scoping out the room, the blood on the walls, the body on the floor, stilling his gaze finally on the “bomb” strapped to Tommy’s chest. “You fucking idiot,” he barks at the FBI spook, “I TOLD YOU THIS WAS MY CRIME SCENE!”

“Oh come on,” replies Mr. FBI, “You know we can’t trust this kind of operation to some cop from some Podunk town.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

No one realizes that Tommy has road flares strapped to his chest until the bomb squad sends a robot in to disarm the “bomb.”