Casablanca The Real Story

Note: Late 2022 marked the 80th anniversary of the iconic film "Casablanca." Unfortunately, for the last 80 years anyone who's seen this movie has been watching a highly censored, watered-down shadow version of what actually was filmed by Warner Bros. before the Hays Office censors demanded ruinous changes be made. The following attempts to give a much more accurate rendering of what the original movie looked like, at least the highlights.

The camera pans across a crowded open marketplace in Casablanca, the year 1942, people milling about everywhere. Suddenly shots are heard, a man slinks to the ground, people scurry away in a great commotion, and the police quickly arrive. When it becomes obvious the shot man is dead, the highest-ranking policeman orders the rest to "Round up the usual assholes." The camera continues to pan across the scene, finally landing on a large, nightclub-type building dressed in a fake Saharan Desert motif. On the building is a flashing neon sign: Rick's Strip Club.

We are next inside Richard Blaine's strip club and he and a mousy, sleazy man named Signore Ugarte are sitting at a table, smoking.

"I hear a German courier was killed a while ago and letters of transit stolen off him," remarks Rick.

"Indeed, so have I," replies Ugarte. "I heard those letters were signed by Charles De Gaulle, Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, Joseph Stalin, Joe DiMaggio, Al Capone, Greta Garbo, and the Pope; they cannot be rescinded, not even questioned." Ugarte, as if screwing up courage, hesitates for a moment and then says, "You know, Rick, by some, let us say, good fortune I happened to come by those letters."

"Really," says Rick, suddenly interested.

"Perhaps now you are a little more impressed with me," utters Ugarte.

"I'm impressed with any man who can suck his own dick like you can."

"Because you hate my fucking guts so much, Rick, you're the only one I can trust." (Also if you get caught with them they'll shoot you dead on the spot.) "Will you hold the letters for me, just for a little while; I plan to sell them tonight in your strip club for more money than I can imagine."

"Okay, but not overnight, I don't want trouble with Renault. Where are they?"

Ugarte reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a wallet-sized bundle. "Here."

He gives it to Rick and he looks at it. What he sees are pictures of Ugarte being gang-banged by three men, his clothes torn off, his face in agony.

"I think you gave me your family photo album by mistake," says Rick.

"What?" mumbles Ugarte, taking it back. "Oh, sorry. It's this one," and gives him another packet.

Just then a policeman comes up to Ugarte and asks him to accompany him. He gets up as if to do so, but then makes a run for it.

"Rick, Rick, help me, Rick!" he shouts. But he doesn't get far before the policeman shoots him three times in the back.

Some snotnosed, holier-than-thou bystander says to Rick, "I hope when they come for me, you're a little more helpful."

"I stick my dick out for nobody," he says. "My heart's been ripped out of me and stomped on, my happiness snatched away from me forever, and this is who I am. You don't like it, go fuck yourselves!"

He walks into the main room of the strip club, near some shelves, and when no one's looking, hides the letters under a pile of old G strings. The strippers had been issued brand new G strings for a long time now; what stripper is going to use an old one when she could have a new one? He was pretty sure they'd be safe there.

He then walks over to the bar and talks to Sascha, the bartender. A woman named Yvonne, apparently having had too much to drink, walks over. She looks at Rick and says, "I waited for you last night lying naked in bed fingering my pussy and pinching my nipples, waiting for you to come and fuck me in all my holes, take me to paradise. You never showed up. Where were you?"

"That was too long ago to remember," says Rick.

"Tonight I'm going to cover my tits in chocolate syrup that you can lick off, then I'm going to suck your cock, lick your asshole, and make you come all over my face and in my mouth. Will you be there?"

"I never make plans that far ahead."

She then screams at him and starts beating him on the chest. "Oh, why did I fall for such a shithead like you!" she cries in desperation and rage.

"Sascha, take her home."

"Yes, boss," he says, rather happily.

"And come right back; fuck her in the taxi if you want, but no more."

"Yes, boss," he responds, gloomily.

Rick goes outside for some air and, of course, another smoke. (We are about 15 minutes into the movie by now and Rick has smoked five packs of cigarettes already.) He finds Captain Louis Renault, the prefect of police, sitting at a table nearby. While they're talking an airplane flies overhead.

"The plane for Lisbon, and then passage to America," Renault says. "I often wonder why you're never on it. Is there something in America that prevents you from returning?"

"It's a long story, Louie."

"Are you wanted by the mob in Chicago? Did you knock up some big-shot politician's daughter? Are you married to half a dozen women simultaneously who all found out about it and have threatened to cut your balls off if they ever see you again? I like to think you killed 7-8 men, it's the romantic in me."

"It's a little bit of all of that, I suppose."

The croupier from the club comes out and tells Rick some gambler is on a lucky streak and he needs more money. All three enter the club and go up a steep staircase to Rick's apartment. He gives the croupier the money and he leaves.

"Ricky," Renault begins. "We're to have a special guest in your strip club tonight, Victor Laszlo."

"Victor Laszlo!" Rick says, astonished.

"Rick," Renault notes, "that's the first time I've ever seen you impressed by someone, except for maybe the time that hooker did that dance on your back naked and then made herself come by rubbing her pussy on your ass while sucking your toes."

"Well, he's managed to impress most of Europe."

"Ricky, Victor Laszlo is to remain in Casablanca."

"I wonder how he'll manage it?" asks Rick.

"Manage what?"

"His escape," says Rick.

"He will need an exit visa to do that, and there are no exit visas. Besides, he'll need two."

"He'll take one."

"He's traveling with a lady. He'll need two; I've seen the lady."

"20,000 francs says he leaves Casablanca," says Rick.

"Make it 10,000, I'm only a poor corrupt official."

Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund enter the club, finally. He's a handsome and rugged looking guy, though he's wearing biker boots and a leather jacket with the top three buttons undone revealing a very hairy chest, and several heavy metal chains. She has tattoos up and down both arms, a nose ring, spiked purple hair, and black lipstick and nail polish. She sees Sam at the piano and asks Carl the waiter to give them a table near him. After being seated, Victor leaves to go to the bar to find out about the letters of transit. She motions Sam to come closer.

"Hello, Sam," she says.

"What in the fuck happened to you? You look like shit!" Sam yells.

"Oh, it's that crazy Victor. He's into all this BD/SM stuff. I let him have what he wants, I'm sure it's just a phase. Is Rick here?"

"Ahhh," Sam mumbles, "no, no, he's hardly ever here. He's got a girl and is probably over there now fucking her brains out."

"You used to be a much better liar, Sam. Now if you said he was with two or three girls or at an orgy, I'd have believed you."

"Leave him alone, Ms. Lund, you're bad luck to him."

"Play some of the old songs, Sam," she says. "Play 'Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer' or 'Take Me for a Buggy Ride.'"

"I don't think I can remember..."

"Play 'The Duck's Yas Yas Yas,' Sam."

"I'm a little rusty on it."

"Play it, Sam. Play 'The Duck's Yas Yas Yas.'

He starts playing it and then after a handful of bars she says, "Sing it, Sam."

He starts singing:

"Mama bought a rooster, she thought it was a duck,

Brought it to the table with its legs straight up;

In come the children with the cup and the glass,

Got to get the liquor from his yas yas yas."

Rick hears the music and rushes over. "I thought I told you never to play that fucking piece of shit song ever..."

He sees Ilsa and looks like he's going to pee his pants.

"Hello, Rick."

"What in the fuck happened to you? You look like shit!" he hollers.

"As I told Sam," she begins, "it's all Victor's idea. He loves me looking like this. How can I say no to the most famous Resistance leader in all the world? Besides, these tats all wash off eventually."

Later, after Ilsa and Victor leave for their hotel, Rick sits in the empty club with Sam. He's drinking bourbon right out of the bottle getting sloshed. Sam is noodling at the piano.

"It's January 1942 in Casablanca, what time is it in New York?"

"I don't know, boss, my watch stopped."

"Of all the strip clubs in all the towns in all the world, she's got to walk into mine," moans Rick.

"What's that you're playing," he asks.

"Oh, just something of my own."

"Well, stop it! You know what I want to hear."

"No, I don't."

"If she can stand it, so can I! Play it!" And he starts playing "The Duck's Yas Yas Yas" again.

Soon his head crashes to the table and a flashback begins. He's in Paris with Ilsa, and she looks like she did back then: curly brunette hair, normal lipstick and nails, no tattoos. They're driving in the countryside then dancing close and drinking champagne at LaBelle Aurore, a cozy little hotel/bar. Before long they're in a room at the hotel, stretched out naked on the bed, the sound of Sam's piano still audible through the floor. Rick is on his back, Ilsa on top of him; they kiss passionately, Rick pulling her body into his, caressing her back and ass. She grinds her pussy into him, feeling his heat rising. She reaches down and strokes his cock, and then must have it in her mouth, she can't live another second unless that amazing cock is in her mouth! She bends her head down to it and sucks him in, stroking it with both her hands as it slides in and out of her mouth. He then pulls her up and in the same motion rolls her onto her back and pins her to the mattress with his body, kissing her deeply again on the mouth before moving to her tits. He holds them and sucks them hard, tonguing her nipples, causing her head to jerk wildly from side to side. "Mmmm, suck my tits," she purrs, holding his head to them. He moves between her legs and puts his cock to her cunt, impatient now, needing to invade her warmth and wetness. She helps him find her entrance and he slides into her, and both of them lose their breath for a second as the pleasure explodes. He fucks her slowly at first and then quickens his pace; she throws her legs around his back and arches her cunt into him, feeling his pelvis smash into hers. "Yes," she moans, "Fuck me, fuck me, oh I love it so much, fuck me!" She brings her legs down again and onto the bed, and he takes her arms and stretches them far out and up from her body, holding her hands with his as he pounds into her. His mouth is licking her neck and nibbling her earlobe, and she is sighing louder and louder and soon her orgasm hits and she cascades over like water flowing down a rock-strewn stream. As she careens from one rock to another he erupts and buries his cum deep inside of her.

In his flashback Rick relives numerous instances of their passionate lovemaking. But the German's are getting closer, and it's time to leave. They agree to take the last train out of Paris and to meet at the station. On that fateful day, with it raining cats and dogs, Sam meets Rick at the station and gives him a note from Ilsa. The note reads: Sorry darling / Couldn't do it / Can't explain / Forgive the pain / Use / Burma Shave.

He is suddenly brought out of his flashback by the sound of the door of the club opening and in walks Ilsa.

"Well," says Rick, disgust and anger in his voice. "The purple-haired lady returns."

"I'm sorry, Rick, believe me if I knew you were in Casablanca I never would've come here."

"So tell me, Miss Lydia the Tattooed Lady, why did you dump me in Paris, leaving me drenched from the rain staring at a soggy farewell note."

"Oh, Rick."

"Come on tell me. I know I'm drunk, but I got stuck holding a railway ticket, I have a right to know."

"All right, if you insist. I was married to Victor Laszlo all the time you and I were in Paris."

"Well, fuck me mama and kick me in the ass!"

"Long before I met you, he and I were married, but we decided to keep it secret because of his work, it would keep me out of danger if he was ever captured by the Germans. Then I read a small article in the paper that he'd been captured and died, and I was out of my mind with grief and heartache. Then I met you and the sun came out again. But just before we were to leave Paris, a friend told me Victor was alive and needed me. I didn't know what to do, but then I knew I couldn't just leave him."

"Yeah, blah, blah, blah. What a fucking sad story, I've heard so many in my life, usually told in some dingy parlor with a tinny piano playing." Ilsa is sobbing now, looking at him in incredible pain and sorrow.

"The Rick I knew in Paris would understand. I'm sorry you hate me so much. Goodbye, Rick."

"Yeah, bitch, go back to your fucking sadist biker-boy Victor Laszlo!" And she runs out.

The next day Laszlo visits the Blue Parrot, another strip club in Casablanca, to talk with its owner Signor Ferrari. He's been told perhaps he could help him obtain an exit visa. Ferrari says he can't do anything, but he suspects that Rick has the letters of transit. So Laszlo then goes to see Rick.

He meets Rick at the club. "So, what do I owe this magnanimous pleasure," says Rick, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"If you have the letters of transit, I will pay you 100,000 francs for them."

"Make it a million, I still wouldn't give them to you."

"Why not? Surely, Mr. Blaine, you know how vital my work is or the free world will die."

"Let it," says Rick. "Put it out of its misery."

"You don't mean that, I know you don't. But why won't you sell them to me?"

"Ask you wife."

Later that night at their hotel, while waiting for the appropriate time for Laszlo to leave their room and attend a Resistance meeting, with Ilsa sitting in his lap, he tells her about visiting Rick and asking him to sell the letters to him.

"And?" she asks after he'd stopped speaking.

"He wouldn't do it, no matter how much money I offered him."

"He wouldn't? Did he say why?"

"No. He said I should ask you."

"Me?"

"Yes, he said, 'Ask your wife.' Is there anything you want to tell me, darling?"

"I don't know why he would say that," she says nervously.

"Were you lonely in Paris?" he asks.

"Yes, Victor. I ...."

"There's no reason to explain, my love."

"Oh, Victor, let me suck you before you go. Please."

She kneels on the floor between his legs and takes his cock out and puts it in her mouth. He's flaccid at first, but with just a few licks of her tongue and thrusts into her mouth, he begins to grow and harden. He closes his eyes and is enraptured by the incredible sensation of her mouth plunging up and down on him, her wonderful mouth always giving him so much pleasure. Her rhythms alter and when she finds the one that produces the most bliss, he holds her head to it. His breathing increases; "Yes," he moans and then again. She brings him right to the edge and then somehow, he never knows how she knows how to do this, she holds him there at the brink of coming, the seconds slowly ticking by, each one a glorious torment to him, until nothing will hold him back and he comes in her mouth, spurt after spurt, bathing her tongue in his white cream. She holds his cock in her mouth after he's come, slowly moving her lips along his shaft, swallowing his semen all the while.

She crawls back onto his lap and cuddles against his chest. She can feel his heart beating against her cheek. Silence permeates the room.

The time arrives for him to leave for the meeting, and Ilsa is left alone to ponder her next move. Then she checks her handbag, slips on a light coat, and leaves. (She also brushed her teeth; did I mention that?)

Meanwhile Rick's strip club has been closed by Captain Renault, by order of the German high command. Rick is talking to the head waiter, Carl.

"Keep everyone on salary for the time being," says Rick.

"Thanks, Rick," Carl replies. "The strippers will be happy and not have to resort to their own devices to get by. All of Casablanca might become a giant brothel if that happened."

"A bribe has worked in the past," Rick utters. "Maybe it will this time as well." He then says goodnight to Carl and climbs the steep staircase to his apartment. When he opens the door and turns on the light, there is Ilsa staring at him.

"I thought I might be seeing you again before long," Rick says.

"You have the letters of transit, don't you Rick?" she asks.

"Yes, I do, right here in my pocket."

"You must give me those letters. I must have them."

"Why? As long as I keep those letters I'll never be lonely."

"Rick, you know what Victor's work means to him and millions of other people. You are so selfish and vindictive, you let one woman hurt you and you take it out on the whole world! Give me those letters!"

"No."

She pulls a gun out and points it at him. "I want the letters, Richard, or I will shoot you."

"Oh, it's Richard now. You think we're back in Paris again. That's just poor salesmanship."

"The letters, give them to me!"

"If Victor Laszlo and the cause mean that much to you, I see you'll stop at nothing to get what you want." She stares at him, tears streaming down her face, but still pointing the gun at him.

Then he takes a few steps closer to her, the gun only inches away from his chest.

"Go ahead and shoot. You'll be doing me a favor."

Openly sobbing now, Ilsa puts the gun down, and looking into Rick's face with utter heartache, says, "Oh, Richard, I left you once before, I will never be able to leave you again," and throws herself in his arms. He hesitates a moment and then clasps her to him.

He guides her over to a divan in the room. He pushes her down on it and kisses her wildly, she returning his ardor. She begins opening the front of her dress as he reaches under it and yanks her panties down. He tears his suit jacket and tie off and unbelts his pants, pulling them down below his knees. He pushes her bra up exposing her tits and sucks them, one than the other. He touches her pussy and inserts a finger as far as it will go; her juices are pouring out of her. "Come inside of me, Rick," she orders. "Put your cock in me, hurry!" He gets between her legs and rams his cock in where his finger just was and fucks her hard. He can feel her hands everywhere: on his back, his ass, on his face as she pulls him down to kiss him. Their bodies are in perfect sync and just as his cock explodes inside of her, she feels her own climax engulf her like a giant wave breaking.

They sit up and straighten their clothes. "I don't know what to do anymore, Rick," she says. "You'll have to think for the two of us." He says he will.

But he looks at her and says, "If I decide it'll be you and me forever, that fucking purple hair has got to go along with those goddam tattoos. It's a good thing you didn't show up here with that nose ring on, or I'd have kicked your ass right out the door."

A few days later Laszlo is talking with Rick in his strip club. Laszlo is hammering on about the war, the Resistance, how Fascism must be defeated or the light of the world will just burn out into darkness. "But you might think it's the only thing that matters to me; believe me, it's not. I do love my wife and would do anything for her."