Easily Tarantino's worst. Since Tarantino decided to write a boring, overly long, flagrantly bad (and disrespect to Tate and co) revisionist fanfiction, I'm going to do the same ...

Cliff Booth, tired of playing second fiddle to Rick Dalton day in and day out, decided, after a heavy night of shared nostalgia and acid-laced cigarettes (he got off a street vendor and not a hippie asshole), to scorch his friend's ass with a flamethrower (which he stunt doubled, don't lie, Rick), catching Rick off-guard as he floated on top his inflated throne in his Hollywood home's pool at night. Rick was, as always, practising his lines and listening to a tape recorder of his voice, buoyed up by the incessant resoluteness of not becoming yesterday's trash.

Cliff laughs.

Cliff Booth's dog then barks and Cliff feeds him a can of dog food by the poolside as the pool turns a crimson shade of red and Rick's lifeless body slowly dissipates into obscurity.

[ play some happy late 60s jingle over end credits ]

[ end scene ]