And yet another shot at the title (part xxiii)

On the top floor of Trainwreck Productions is a hallway dedicated to the finest moments in the studio’s history. Moments such as Rip Torn’s flaccid penis in The Man Who Fell to Earth, Keanu Reeves’ hairy ass cheeks in The Devil’s Advocate, plus many other fine specimens of film nudity were immortalized down this corridor. And at the very end of the hallway, where the conference room sat, was a large poster of my finest hour: This Tastes Like Ass. I felt like a part of living history…and that I’ve done more to make this studio great than that thieving bastard Jimmy Del Greco.

To my shock, there was Jimmy standing at the end of a long conference table where Greta and her team, including Cassandra, were waiting on us. The great Burbank skyline stood a mile high out the window behind Jimmy. Pablo, Kat, and myself took seats on one side of the table. Greta and her goons on the other.

“Thank you all for being here,” Jimmy began, still in his Tom Ford tuxedo. “I know I shouldn’t be here given the legal action that resulted in the death of my attorney from James Pietermeister. But HR wanted me to give a quick spiel on sexual harassment before production begins on Chatty Cathy.”

We all groaned.

Jimmy clicked a remote and above him a large screen slowly rolled down. The lights dimmed and a projector illuminated an image of a woman on the screen. “Mr. Pietermeister, do you know what this is?” Jimmy asked me.

I shrugged. “A woman?”

“Very good,” he said. Then he tossed me a Kit Kat bar. He clicked the remote again and another image appeared. “Greta, do you know what this is?”

“A man, Mr. Del Greco.”

“Yes,” he said, then tossed her a bag of M&Ms. “And you know what happens when men and women work together?”

No one said anything.

“Well let me show you,” Jimmy explained. Then he fumbled with the remote for a few minutes trying to click on a YouTube hyperlink. After he figured it out, a video played of a female director, the same one I identified in the image, attempting to convince a male actor to expose his penis for a nude scene.

“Come on Bob!” the woman shouted to the man. “All the cool actors hang wang in the pictures these days! Have you ever seen Westworld?!”

“Gee miss,” the actor replied, “I ain’t never showed my pee pee on camera before!”

The woman placed her hand around the actor. “It’s okay Bob,” she says, trying to calm him. “No one will laugh at your laughably small penis. Size doesn’t matter. I swear.” Then the director placed her hand on his crotch.

“Halt!” a narrator said. “What would you do in this situation? Think about it…think about it…okay, what did you come up with?”

Jimmy paused the video and stepped in front of the screen. “Okay, what did you guys come up with?” he asked.

The room was silent.

Then Pee-Wee, my handy production assistant, raised his hand. “Actors should always do what the director asks of them,” he suggested.

“No Pee-Wee. But that was a good try,” Jimmy said then tossed him a Snickers. “Anyone else want to guess?”

“Actors and actresses shouldn’t have to do nudity if they don’t want to,” Greta spoke up.

“Bingo!” Jimmy said. As a reward, Greta was given a $10 Subway gift card. “You see folks,” Jimmy continued, “the purpose of this exercise is to highlight the need to get along. We have a lot of hands in this production and the last thing we need is another sexual harassment lawsuit. The studio just can’t afford it right now. So let’s all come together, hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and for fucks sake let’s make a great picture!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxii)

In its nearly 22,000 years of existence, the city of Burbank sat as a barren heap on the Los Angeles basin. They say that the natives used it as a staging ground for child sacrifices, senseless slaughtering of enemies captured in meaningless disputes lost to history. Since man began sowing the fields of Eden, Burbank remained a godless land where even the most savage beast dare not tread. When the white man came, those conquistadors found acres of cow shit and rivers fouled with the funk carcasses rotted. There it remained for another hundred years before a movie executive saw fit to build a studio there. Nothing has changed in the time since. Still the stench and ghosts of men long dead shout aloud in its halls. At the very center of this ghastly haunt is Trainwreck Productions which sits as a Caesar watching over its forsaken wasteland. No one dares challenge him. For what king would be foolish enough to lay claim?

That’s when I graced its halls. Perhaps for the last time I thought.

Pablo was waiting on me in the lobby. He was more alert than usual. “I don’t know why but Kat and Jimmy aren’t talking to me,” he explained.

“That’s okay. Dan is taking care of contract negotiations,” I said.

He was flummoxed. “Well, am I still your agent?”

“I haven’t fired you yet,” I shrugged.

“Goddamnit,” he said. “Then let’s get this day over with.”

Kat joined us moments later. “Great news fellas!” she exclaimed.

“What’s that? I’m finally getting back pay for my work on This Tastes Like Ass?” I ask.

She cocked her head. “No. The elevator is finally working. So no more crawling up the air ducts.”

It wasn’t much but it was something. Perhaps a sign of things to come. After all it only took 30 years. So the three of us crowded into the cramped elevator, Kat more chipper than usual. “Did you remember to bring your script notes?” she leaned forward to ask me.

“You should know me by now Kat,” I told her. “When have I ever taken notes?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xvii)

It was defeat. There was no way to sugarcoat it. Dan didn’t say a word to me as we walked out of the courtroom. As we approached the vending machines, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“You okay, Dan?” I ask.

His briefcase fell to his feet and he began shaking. “I…I…,” he started to stutter.

“Now’s not the time to have a stroke,” I warned.

Then tears began to slowly stream down his face. “I’m sorry I shit the bed in there,” he cried, then buried his head into my shoulder.

I could have belittled him. I could have made him feel like the useless attorney that he now was. His weakness somewhat disgusted me. But Instead I felt something that had never once occurred to me in my entire life.

It was compassion.

I placed my arms around the large Texas lawyer in a calming embrace. “It’s okay Dan,” I told him, “I always knew it would come to this. I’ll hand the money over to Jimmy then go back to my home in the hills, put on my white kimono, and commit ritual seppuku just like in the days of the samurai. It’s a warrior’s death. There’s no shame in it.”

“My father always told me that I shouldn’t be a lawyer,” Dan cried. “He said only Jews and queers practice law and my penis isn’t circumcised so what does that make me?!”. Then he bawled loudly onto my shoulder. “Oh how I curse the day I got my law license!”

“Jesus Christ, Dan,” I said. But his lamenting stirred up my own fears and doubts. I began to question myself; had I known that all my successes and victories led me here, to this cursed hall of justice, would I have chosen a different path? I didn’t have an answer. Like Dan, I began to feel as though my whole life’s mission was meaningless. So we let him weep away and pout himself in vain for things that cannot be undone.

As we stood there motionless in a mournful embrace, a passerby approached us. “Are you two okay?” the fellow asked.

“We’re fine. Thank you,” I responded.

“Is the gentleman crying your client?”

“No. He’s my attorney.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xvi)

“Mr. Pietermeister, where were you on the morning of September 3rd?” Mr. Shapiro asked as he began his line of questioning.

“Objection, your honor,” Dan interjected. “This is a civil case, not a criminal one. My client’s whereabouts are not pertinent to the matter at hand.”

“Agreed,” the Judge nodded. “Try again, Mr. Shapiro.”

“Yes, Your Honor, contrary to my counterpart’s opinion, Mr. Pietermeister’s whereabouts is pertinent to this case,” Shapiro added. “For on the morning of September 3rd, the plaintiff attended a mental health counseling session. As we all know, poor mental health is also a personal and moral failing.”

“Ben-Jamin,” the Judge firmly said, “this court is not interested in your moral pontifications. Moving forward, your arguments had better be related to this case or else I will hold you in contempt.”

“Very well, Your Honor,” Shapiro said. Then he picked up a thick stack of papers and began thumbing through them. “If the court turns to section 3B/214 on page 387 of the contract between Pietermeister and Trainwreck Productions, the legalese clearly states that the chief executive officer OR a representative in a position over the plaintiff may terminate this contract for any moral failing AND, in so doing, Mr. Pietermeister must forfeit certain monetary compensation as determined by the CEO, who, in this case, is our defendant Jimmy Del Greco.”

Great, I thought, the first time I ever attended therapy and it cost me $52 billion. I looked over to Dan who was frantically looking through the contract.

“So as you see, Your Honor,” Shapiro concluded, “due to the plaintiff’s weak character between attending therapy AND his run-in with the appointed director of Chatty Cathy, Trainwreck Productions had just cause in terminating its relations with the James Pietermeister and are therefore owed $52 billion.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I yelled.

“Mr. Pietermeister, your legal counsel should be the ones objecting,” the Judge said.

“Well I object to your ruling,” I replied.

“But I haven’t ruled anything yet!”

“I must protest this farce that you call a courtroom,” I continued. “I protest the defense counsel. I protest Jimmy. I protest the very laws that govern the State of California. I’m an innocent man and I call for a retrial!”

“James, what the fuck is wrong with you?” the Judge asked. “YOU’RE the plaintiff! That means you were the one that brought this case to court!”

Dan stood up. “Your Honor, I’d like to call a recess.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xv)

From the Reno Gazette Journal

Woman curses god for making her judge in Los Angeles County

By Chris Hansen

A judge for the Los Angeles Superior Court agrees to hear a complaint from filmmaker James Pietermeister against Trainwreck Productions studio head Jimmy Del Greco. The famed director is accusing the executive of extorting him of $52 billion.

“How many fucking times can this guy curse these halls of justice?” asks Judge Sandra Day O’Conor Barnhart. “Mr. Pietermeister is a menace to society and I’d extort him out of billions too!”

Mr. Pietermeister is being represented by Dan Gillespie. Meanwhile, Mr. Del Greco has sought the services of famed right-wing provocateur Ben-Jamin “El Supremo” Shapiro in his legal fight.

Meanwhile in other news, man burns his asshole by…

***

Dan was mindlessly perusing through legal documents while we waited for the judge. “I gotta hand it to you,” I said to him, “you got us on the docket rather quickly.”

“It was simple really,” Dan replied. “When you’re short on time, blackmail always comes through in a pinch.”

I nodded in agreement. I could tell he was nervous by profusely sweating and reeking of alcohol. “I have faith in you,” I told him. “Jimmy may be prudent but he’s no match against us big guns.”

Dan finished shuffling through his papers and threw them back in his briefcase. “It’s not Jimmy I’m worried about,” he says. “It’s that bastard Shapiro.” I looked across the room and noticed Jimmy and Ben-Jamin smiling and slapping each other on their backs

The bailiff stepped into the courtroom and everyone was silent. “All rise!” he ordered. The Judge came in and took her place. “The Honorable Justice Sandra Day O’Conor Barnhart presiding,” the bailiff concluded. Then she banged her gavel.

“Let’s get this bullshit over with,” she ordered. “Dan, state your case.”

“Thank you, your honor,” Dan began. He stood up, straightened his suit, and started addressing the court. “Your honor, according to a sworn affidavit we’ve obtained from Ms. Cassandra McHale, it is plainly obvious that the contract negotiated by Mr. Del Greco and signed by my client Mr. Pietermeister was not done in good faith. It is therefore the argument of the plaintiff that he does not owe the defendant the compensation stated.”

“Very well,” the Judge said. “Ben-Jamin, what say you?”

Shapiro stood up and stared at the court. “Illegal aliens, the Department of Education, the IRS, the UN, homosexuality…how much more can this country take?!” he shouted. “Your honor, this case is just another waste of taxpayer money. When will the American people stand up and say enough is enough?!”

He then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Glock 19. “I am currently exercising my constitutional right to carry,” Shapiro explained. “And if we want take back this country, the American people must also exercise this right in courtrooms across the country. I therefore call Mr. Pietermeister to the stand.”

I sighed and approached the witness stand. I placed my left hand on the Bible. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god?” the bailiff asked.

“I’ve never told a lie,” I lied then took my seat.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xiv)

Jimmy stepped out of the limousine and looked around the barren streets. He drew his small .22 revolver and scanned the darkness for any signs of trouble. Dan stepped forward from the shadows with myself and Pablo flanked on both sides. I was carrying a large metal briefcase while Pablo looked at his phone disinterested as usual.

Jimmy squinted when he noticed us three marching towards him. “My god,” he said, “is that…”

“Yes, Dan Gillespie,” the attorney said, “and I’m here to represent my client, James Ludacris Pietermeister.”

“But Dan,” Jimmy responded, “I thought you were out of the game.”

“Think again Jimmy. It’s Friday night, the very deadline you gave Mr. Pietermeister to pay up.”

Jimmy holstered his .22. “But why have me meet you under an overpass in El Segundo?” he asked.

“We thought a neutral site would be the best option,” Dan told him. Then I threw the metal briefcase at his feet.

“Is there supposed to be $52 billion in this briefcase?” Jimmy asked.

“Just open it,” I ordered.

The studio exec kneeled down in his Tom Ford tuxedo and unlocked the case. We could hear his knees cracking as he went to the ground. “Ow! I probably shouldn’t be kneeling down like this,” Jimmy groaned. “It’s not good for my osteoarthritis.”

He finally unlatched both locks and lifted the top. I could see his eyes widen as he took out the lone piece of paper inside. “What the fuck is this?!” he asked in a state of shock. “A summons to appear in court?!”

“You fucked up Jimmy,” I said. “You didn’t think I would catch on? Cassandra told me everything.”

“Cassandra McHale? That dumb screenwriter that Greta hired?”

“One more word out of you…” I began to threaten.

“Save it, James,” Dan interrupted. “We have him right where we want him.”

“You think you can defeat me in court?” Jimmy laughed as he slowly returned to his feet. “All you have, James, is a washed up lawyer, an idiot for an agent, and a ditz for a witness. I’m gonna eat you alive.”

I shook my head and spat on the ground. “Your days are numbered Jimmy,” I said. “We’ve gone up against more powerful men than you…and WON. Isn’t that right, Pablo?”

Pablo glanced up from his phone when he heard his name. “Oh yeah, yeah. Sure.”

Jimmy was flustered. “You don’t know what’s coming to you, James Pietermeister,” he warned as he wagged his finger.

“We’ll see you at the Los Angeles County Court House.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xiii)

Dan was getting a tension headache. “I don’t know James,” he said in his West Hollywood office, “there’s just not enough here. And for christsake, put down that katana!”

“Jimmy set me up!” I exclaimed. “He brought on Cassandra knowing that I would blame Greta and that I would make a fool of myself and that she would fire me for it which would mean I would owe the studio $52 billion! It’s as clear as day!”

“You’re probably right,” he said. “But that would be next to impossible to prove in court. And besides, I’m not even sure what he did was illegal. Unethical, of course. But illegal?”

I began twirling around the katana while I spit balled ideas. “We gotta figure out something, Dan,” I said. “What if I can convince Cassandra to take the stand?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he started pacing back and forth. “I just don’t think that the courts will want to listen to this case.”

Suddenly it occurred to me. “You’re afraid,” I told him.

“Afraid?” he shrugged. “Afraid of what? This all seems like a stretch to me. That’s all. I’m just trying to be pragmatic.”

I snapped the katana over my knee like it wasn’t shit and threw it in the corner. Then I leaned over the desk to look him square in the eye. “This is Hollywood you COWARD!” I told him. “This isn’t the place to play scared. This town favors the bold, the adventurous, the visionaries! If you want to play it safe, then perhaps you should practice law in Wichita Falls! Not here!”

“But I haven’t appeared in a court in years,” Dan pleaded as his voice cracked. “I don’t think I’m strong enough anymore.”

“I see,” I said. Then I transitioned into a more calming state. “Dan,” I continued, “you are the most powerful attorney this town has ever seen. Nothing can change that. You would have beat me if I hadn’t viciously murdered your client. That’s the only reason I won. You pushed me to the brink! It was the battle of wills and I happened to have come out on top. That doesn’t make you the lesser opponent. It was any given Sunday and someone had to win. But now’s your time to have your triumphant return. Let’s go to the Los Angeles Superior Court and show them who still runs this town!”

Dan seemed to have been zapped back into reality. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right: I am the greatest attorney to have ever lived.”

I nodded. “Damn right. But the deadline to pay up is Friday. We must come up with a plan!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xii)

Storm clouds gathered over Hollywood Hills. The pounding thunder fueled my appetite for revenge. So I did the only thing I could do: I sharpened my blade. The katana was clean; I would not be satisfied until it was dripping with blood.

I prepared the blade like in the days of the samurai. The rage and hate flowing through my veins heightened my senses. The smell of death was all around me. I knew the halls of Trainwreck Studios would soon be covered with the entrails of my enemies.

Then there was a soft knock. I quickly swung the katana behind me. No one was there.

I inched quietly up the stairs into the kitchen. Not a soul was present. Then there was another knock.

Knock knock knock

It was coming from the front door.

Beads of sweat poured from my face, off my back, and down my ass crack. I tiptoed towards the door with the blade ready. I slowly turned the knob. Then I threw the door open and swung the sword.

But I stopped short of killing the intruder. For I recognized her. It was Cassandra, standing on the porch in the pouring rain.

“Cassandra?!” I ask. “What’s the meaning of this visit? Why must you darken my door?”

“James,” she said in her British accent, “I must speak with you.”

I lowered the sword and she invited herself in. I offered her a towel and she sat on the couch as she dried her hair. I struggled to find the right words.

“Why the samurai sword?” she asked.

I raised the blade to admire its gleam. “I must kill Jimmy Greco,” I said.

“Then you won’t like what I have to tell you,” she explained. “Don’t blame Greta for any of this.”

“What do you mean?”

Cassandra finished drying her hair and placed the towel in her lap. Then she lowered her eyes. “It was Jimmy,” she said. “Jimmy brought me on board. Not Greta. She had no say.”

I shook my head. “I should have known.”

I noticed the strands of red hair draping over her face. I had forgotten how beautiful she was. “I saw how hurt you were at the press conference,” she said, “I couldn’t keep hurting you.”

I put down the sword and sat beside her. I reached for her hand. “It’s not your fault,” I told her. “This is all Jimmy’s doing. He’s been out to get me the moment we met. He’s the one who must pay the price.”

As I reached for the sword, Cassandra stopped me. “Please wait,” she pleaded, “there must be another way.”

“You don’t understand Cassandra. This is the only way.”

“But if you kill Jimmy, then you’ll lose everything. Think about all those that love you. Think about Slick Rick!”

“My god,” I said, “why do I keep forgetting about Slick Rick?!”

“Don’t disappoint him James! Find another way.”

I nodded then picked up the sword and grabbed my coat. “Please don’t go to Burbank!” Cassandra begged.

“I’m not going to Burbank,” I said. “I’m going to West Hollywood.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xi)

Dick’s fully erect penis glistened under the glowing California sun. He stood as a specter on the balcony over looking the Los Angeles skyline. I was in awe of this naked figure as I sat at his feet. Then he began his ominous rhapsody.

“Los Angeles,” he uttered, “even the name is a deception. For in the City of Angels, one will only find spawns of Satan.”

He was statuesque; a physique rivaled only by Michelangelo’s David (with a much bigger penis of course). Sometimes he would stand there motionless, me waiting with anticipation for his next movement. It was not unlike watching Michael Jackson in the early 90s.

“All sense of brotherly love has been eroded by greed and avarice,” Dick continued. “This is a city of shattered dreams…of broken promises. Everything that can be deemed good in humanity is vacant here, in this godless land. But you, my sweet James: my most trusted disciple, you were strong enough to weather the storm. Much like that naked shrub in Palm Springs, you have carved out a lone existence in this barren soil. The seed planted here many moons ago has survived. You are the one bit of life that still clings on to this forsaken land. Oh, how the gods have touched you.”

I sat in lotus position as I pondered his words. “But there are those that wish to stamp out my flourishing seed, oh Master….ME…a defenseless shrub. Why must the burden of talent be so heavy?” I ask.

Dick grabbed me and pulled me up to my feet. He slapped me across the face and then gave me his warm embrace. His erection was poking me in the thigh. Then he put his hands to my face and looked me in the eye. “Do not be distraught, oh little one,” he said. “Haven’t you learned from my words? Only I am stronger than you. Nothing in this land can tear you down. Not earth, wind, or California wildfires. Thanks to me, you are stronger than they.”

I lowered my head in shame. “Forgive me, Master,” I said, “I am ashamed to say that for the first time, I feel…vulnerable. Afraid. Unsure of myself.”

Dick shined his calming smile and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Through me, all things are possible,” he said. “You will vanquish your enemies. They will bow down before you and tremble at the very name, James Pietermeister. Show them once again to never doubt you. And more importantly, never forgive them. Mercy is for the weak.”

I nodded in solemn agreement.

“Now,” Dick concluded, “this visitation will cost $354,000 and the keys to your Maserati to drive back to Palm Springs.”

Then I reached into my pocket.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part x)

I sat stone cold silent as Trainwreck Productions rolled out the red carpet in its announcement for Chatty Cathy. Cassandra, Greta, and Cat were all smiles. I couldn’t muster up the energy to give a shit.

“So James, what’s your role in all this?” a reporter asked.

I shrugged.

“Do you hope that this will be as big of a hit as This Tastes Like Ass?” another asked.

I put the microphone up to my ass and farted.

Afterwords, the entire team met back stage. Cat approached me before I could say anything. “I only learned hours ago that Cassandra would be a part of this, I swear!” she said.

I was silent. I pushed her aside as I approached Greta. “How could you Greta?” I screamed. “Now I know you’re fucking with me!”

“What are you on about now James?!” she shouted back.

“You knew about me and Cassandra! Why would you bring her onboard?!”

I could see Cassandra eyeing us from afar.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about! You’re delusional, you know that?!”

“Of course I know that! But that doesn’t excuse your move without consulting ME!”

“James, please,” Cat interfered.

“Shut the fuck up Cat! This is between me and GRETA!”

“Go home James,” Greta retorted.

“No, YOU go home! You’re FIRED!”

The room grew deathly silent. “James, come on,” Cat said, “let me talk to you outside.”

“Fire her Cat. This is unacceptable.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Actually James,” Greta spoke up, “Jimmy put me in charge of production. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, given your behavior, I am firing you.”

Her smirk taunted me.

“You are one heartless cunt,” I said.

“Security!” Greta ordered.

I raised up my hands and walked out. Cat followed me outside. I picked up a trash can and threw it into a windshield of a nearby car. It was my car.

“How could you do this Cat?” I asked. “Aren’t you the producer? Shouldn’t you have known?”

“Yes…”

“So why didn’t you tell me earlier?!”

“This is the first time me saying this, but I think your anger is justified this time.”

“I KNOW!”

“Jimmy pulled a switcheroo this morning.”

“He what?”

“He named Greta both producer and director as where I will only be serving as an EP. Greta has complete say in personnel.”

“So what the fuck was I supposed to do?!”

“I don’t know. I’ve been left in the dark on that.”

I began practicing a few breathing exercises that Dick taught me. “Well it doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve been fired. Not that I wanted to work on this dumpster fire anyway.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. Pablo’s a genius, he’ll figure something out…”

***

“Are you fuckin stupid?!” Dan shouted at me. His Texas draw was quite prominent.

“This has got to be a rhetorical question,” I said.

“Pablo, in all my years I have never seen a more worthless agent,” Dan continued.

Pablo shrugged.

“I must say Dan,” I spoke, “it’s nice to see the fiery passion back in your eyes.”

“All you had to do was get Jimmy replaced and you would have been out of the Chatty Cathy contract scott free,” the lawyer continued. “Given your experience overrunning entire film productions, I figured that would be a walk in the park for you. Instead you’re going to owe Jimmy billions!”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I know you don’t understand because you didn’t read the contract! Not only were you forbidden to quit, the contract plainly states that you shouldn’t get fired either!”

“You’re shitting me!”

“No I’m not shitting you! And I’m deathly afraid to do the math on how much you owe the studio!”

“$52 billion,” Pablo plainly said.

My heart sank to my feet. “So what should I do now?” I asked.

“You got played James! The only thing to do now is surrender and get your job back!”

My mind was scrambled. I didn’t know what to say. “Get…my job….back?” I stuttered. “You mean, say I’m s-s-s-sorry? I, I don’t know Dan. Wh-what do you think Pablo?”

Pablo looked up from his game of solitaire. “Oh, uhh, yeah. Just say you’re sorry. Or whatever.”

“You don’t have any other choice James!” Dan said.

I began pacing back and forth. “I don’t know if I can do that,” I wondered aloud. “I mean, I have a reputation in this town!”

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you at least swallow your pride this one time?! That’s a fuckton of money!” Dan pleaded.

“I don’t know if I can Dan. Pablo, what do you think?”

“Why do you keep asking me questions for?!”

Dan put his arm around me. “Look, let me talk some good old fashioned Texas sense into you,” he said. “You’re a respected man in this town. You’re a little crazy but everyone knows that! Just talk to Greta, talk to Jimmy, and say you’re a little strung out on drugs. Check yourself into rehab and tell them you’ll be back at work ready to do whatever is asked of you. This is called damage control, and this is what Pablo should be advising you to do.”

I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, rehab. That’s the ticket!” I said.

“Now go!” Dan ordered. He patted me on the ass and I was on my way out the door. While speeding from Dan’s office to Burbank I received a call from Jimmy.

“Jimmy! Buddy! I was just on my way to see you!” I greeted.

“Yeah yeah,” he said, “when will I see that check for $52 billion?”

I choked back all my rage and hatred to stay jovial. “Yeah about that, look, I might’ve been on a bit too much speed and alcohol last night. And you know that uppers don’t mix with downers. So how about I just check into rehab and I’ll be back at work on Monday.”

Jimmy laughed that maniacal laugh. “Damage control, eh? I don’t think so.”

“Jimmy please, don’t do this to me.”

“I’m afraid that you’ve spent all your nine lives James. Now I know that I’m not the most visionary of studio execs. But I’ve kept this studio afloat for one damn good reason: money. And we’ve spent a LOT of money on you, James. Way too much in my opinion. And I intend on getting alllllll back, and then some. Talk to your bankers and attorneys. I’m giving you until next Friday. Have a good day James.”

TO BE CONTINUED…