And yet another shot at the title (part xxvii)

“Alright, as executive consultants on this picture the studio is willing to pay out $850,000 in salary and you are entitled to 3% of the gross with an executive producer credit,” Kat explained to Mama Mohammed and Dick. “That is the best that we can do.”

Mama stood up and grabbed the paperwork from Kat. “I agree to these terms,” she said. Then crumpled up the paper and swallowed it whole. “I’ll have the paperwork mailed back to you in week’s time,” Mama concluded and left the room.

“Dick, what about you?” Kat asked. Dick took his paperwork, laid it on the ground and pissed on it. When he was done, he picked up the soggy and dripping paper and put it on Kat’s desk. He too left the room without saying a word.

“Well done Kat!” I said. “You’re a very talented negotiator.”

“What the hell do you mean?” she asked. “Dick rejected the terms!”

“Nonsense! If you noticed, he didn’t indiscriminately piss on the paper. With his urine stream, he very legibly signed his name on the signature line. He agreed!”

“That makes me feel a little better. I guess? But I’m still concerned about Dick and Mama working together. You heard Jimmy. He wants this production to go off without a hitch but I’m afraid that we have an explosive situation on our hands.”

“Never mind Jimmy,” I said. “Kat, when are you going to learn that you don’t need him? You are better than him. I’m just going to say it: YOU need to be head of this studio. We put a lot of work into rebuilding this company and we need to continue being the gold standard in Hollywood. Do you honestly think Jimmy is capable of keeping us on top?”

“Now you shut your mouth!” Kat said with fire in her eyes. “I will have no more talk of me replacing Jimmy, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said sardonically. “Loud and clear.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxvi)

Mama Anandra Sheila Mohammed Anard caught me staring at her superb supple breast fully exposed through her eclectic mixture of Turkish, Persian, Hindu, Swahili, Hotep, Aztec, Mongolian, Tibetan, Vietnamese, Hmong, and Puerto Rican garb. “What is it about these two exposed swelling glands that amplify the fertility of women that appeal to men?” she asks me.

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Personally I’m an ass man.”

Perhaps it was a game of one-upmanship between her and Dick who was sitting on the other side of the room wide legged with his nutsack fully exposed. Not his penis. Just his long, wrinkly scrotum. “Men are too easily entertained,” Mama continued, “certainly the lesser of the species.”

“No argument here,” I said.

Jimmy and Kat walked in side by side with Kat holding stacks of paperwork under her arm. Jimmy was inexplicably donned in traditional Sikh clothing. “This is absurd,” Jimmy said, “of course Mama should be a consultant on this project!”

He knelt down in front of the guru, cupping one of her breast in his hand. “Oh Mama,” Jimmy uttered, “the mother goddess graces us with her presence.”

Mama placed her hands on his face. “Of the evil that man doeth,” she spoke, “you are the one shining beacon of hope that lights up this cruel world.”

“Oh Mama, oh Mama,” Jimmy repeated. He shed a few tears then stood up and looked me square in the eye. “This woman is a saint,” he said to me. “Regardless of the beef between you and me, you treat this woman as royalty. Understood?”

“Whatever you say Jimmy,” I said.

He grabbed some of the paperwork from Kat and began signing away. Afterwards he threw down the pen and approached Kat. “Katherine, we’ve worked together a long time. I trust you. But with Mama Sheila Mohammed onboard, I require your utmost professionalism,” he warned. “No more shenanigans like in the previous pictures. This production must come in on time and on budget.”

Kat swallowed and nodded. “Yes sir,” she said.

Then he looked back at me. “And James…”

“Yes Jimmy?” I said awaiting his response. But he said nothing and departed the room.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxv)

Kat’s cold and sterile office on the third floor faced Burbank International Airport. I liked to go there, drink bourbon, puff on cigars and pray to god that those Boeing 737s would make it off the ground. This would always annoy Kat. But if I pestered her during her busiest hours that’s usually when I could pry a yes from her. So that’s what I did on that particular Friday afternoon.

“What do you think about Casper Van Diem?” I asked her while she busily signing paperwork.

“I liked him in that Star Track movie,” she replied, not looking up.

“Star Track?” I ask. “Don’t you mean Starshit Troopers?”

“No, he was in a Star Track movie. The one with all those space zombies.”

“Oh! I think you’re referring to Neil Dylan McDermott.”

“You mean Dermot Mulroney?”

“No, McDermott was in Star Track. Diem was in Starshit Troopers. I don’t think Mulroney was in anything.”

Kat continued to thumb through papers. “Why are thinking about actors no one has thought of in 30 years?”

I took another drag off my cigar. “I think he’d be good for the lead in Chatty Cathy.”

“Dermot Mulroney?”

“No! Casper Van Diem!”

Kat took off her reading glasses and leaned back in her chair. “I’d be fine with whoever you and Greta agree upon,” she said. “But wouldn’t someone with more, ya know, star power be better?”

“Star power?” I shrugged. “If we wanted to power a star, we’d need an untold amounts of energy compressed together to create nuclear fusion. But we’re not physicists. We’re filmmakers! Do you think anyone ever heard of Harrison Chevrolet before War of the Stars came out? Or what about Leonardo DeVincio for that movie about that boat sinking! Star power means nothing in today’s Hollywood.”

“Fine,” said Kat. “But why Diem?”

I turned back to the window to watch the latest plane depart. “I’m not sure,” I said thoughtfully. “I guess in my later years I want to be more like Quittin Tarantino. Ya know. Give actors a second shot at fame. I want to feel like I’m leaving behind a legacy.”

Kat was puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be this reflective,” she said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show an ounce of self awareness at all.”

“Yeah well, you get soft in your old age,” I said as I puffed. “You’ll learn that eventually.”

“We’re the same age James.”

“Whatever,” I said then tapped out the cigar. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. I need to bring on another producer. Now don’t worry. He’s only going to be a creative consultant.”

She started rubbing her temples. “Who is he James?”

“Dick Warburton. He’s my spiritual guru I guess you can say.”

“Fuck me!” Kat yelled as she threw up her arms.

“What? This isn’t any weirder than all the other things I’ve done. In fact, this one’s kinda mild.”

“No it’s not that,” she explained as she tried to think. “It’s that Greta is also bringing her guru on as a consultant!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxiv)

“Alright, I’ll get out of your hair,”’Jimmy said. “Katherine, this is your show.”

“Thank you Jimmy,” she said.

Jimmy picked up his candy tote and departed the conference room. The two parties sat on either side of the table staring at each other. Kat stacked some papers and started the meeting. “First off, salary negotiations…,” she began. Greta interrupted.

“Well James, congratulations on hijacking another production,” she told me.

“No hard feelings Greta,” I said. “There were some legalities regarding my dismissal which Jimmy and I settled in court. This is only business.”

“I fired you!” she shouted.

“We can keep digging up the past but I’m here now. We have a movie to make. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to move forward with this project…”

“James is right,” Kat interjected. “We’re all professionals here and we’re running behind schedule.”

Greta was fuming. She said nothing for the duration of the meeting. We went over the logistics, casting choices, and story boards while she sat with her arms folded and staring off into space.

“Cassandra, take note,” I ordered, “the film should end with the lead bending over, spreading his ass cheeks, and shitting out Chatty Cathy onto the ground with her shouting ‘Thank Christ for mayonnaise’”

This failed to illicit a response from Greta. A concerned Kat motioned to her. “Greta do you have any input on this ending?” she asked.

Greta took a deep breath, unfolded her arms, and looked me dead in the eye. “I think you left your brain splattered on the ground in Eastern Europe,” she told me.

She stood up and huffed out of the room. Everyone was quiet. I rubbed my fingers to the backside of my head where the scars of the exit wound lay. “Well ladies and gentlemen,” I told them, “let the building of sets commence. Welcome to the production of Chatty Cathy. I look forward to working with each and every one of you. I’ll see all of you on Monday.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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 xxi)

All was quiet under the scorching sun. The lone, naked shrub still lay undisturbed in the barren Palm Springs desert. I watched a coyote forage around then piss on a Joshua Tree. Not even he would bother this useless piece of vegetation that clung onto life in this waterless land.

Everything around me rang of death. Yet here I was. There was the coyote. There was the piddly, useless shrub. Despite all odds, despite the elements wishing death upon us, we survived.

At least I survived this time.

Perhaps the gods did smile upon me, I thought. The devil in these matters…the Hollywood snakes with their venom, as the vipers are to the coyote in this wasteland…are of no match to destiny. Perhaps Dick was wrong. I was a predator. In this sense, I was more akin to the coyote than the shrub. I was the lone wolf. And the executives were my prey.

I took out my penis and pissed on the shrub.

“Providing the shrub substance I see,” Dick said.

I swung around. “Yes,” I said.

Dick approached and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I see you were victorious,” he smiled.

“I want you to come back to Hollywood with me.”

Dick looked to the sand below him and smiled that warm smile. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked.

“I’m back in the director’s chair,” I said. “But the fight isn’t over.”

“The fight is never over,” he warned.

“I couldn’t have done this without you. I’m strong but not strong enough. They’ll never stop coming for me.”

Dick nodded and looked up to the burning sun. “If I were to come with you,” he said, “then I want a producer’s credit and 10% of the gross.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xx)

As Ben-jamin “El Supremo” Shapiro’s lifeless body bled out onto the floor and police and paramedics were rushing madly into the courthouse, Dan and I walked out into the halls laughing and patting ourselves on the back. “You were brilliant in there,” I told him.

“It’s been awhile since I killed a fellow attorney in the courtroom,” he smiled.

When we reached the courthouse steps, Dan stopped to breath in the air. “I feel alive again,” he said. “After you blew up that movie set on the steppes on Eastern Europe, I thought my career was over. I want to thank you.”

I shugged. “It’s the least I could do for killing your most famous client.”

We shared a few more laughs before we received an unwelcome guest. “Well played, well played,” Jimmy Del Greco told us as he appeared lightly clapping behind a pillar. “I guess you think you’re invincible now.”

“You’re wrong Jimmy,” I replied. “I’ve always thought I was invincible.”

“Keep that filthy money,” he continued. “The studio never needed you anyway.”

“Woah woah woah!” I retorted. “Sounds like you’re itching for another fight. You tried to set me up out of billions and your lawyer tried to kill me. Now I’m no legal expert, but I’d venture to guess that I’d have grounds to sue you. What do you say? Wanna go back inside for round two?”

“Now wait a minute,” Jimmy said then adjusted his coat. “This is about to be a shit storm in the papers and stock prices will likely plummet. We need to save some face here.”

“No, YOU need to save face here,” Dan interjected.

Jimmy nodded. “Alright, so what do you want?”

I wasn’t prepared to answer. It never occurred to me to ask Jimmy for anything. So I looked to Dan. “You want to stop the embarrassment and plummeting stock prices?” the lawyer asked. “Then fire Greta and make James the sole director of Chatty Cathy.”

Jimmy shook his head. “No can do,” he said. “Greta’s contract is ironclad. No one can fire her. Not me, not God. No one.”

I straightened out my tie and began to speak terms. “Then I guess we’re going back to our original terms,” I said. “Let Greta and the press know I’ll be at work on Monday.”

Jimmy glared defiantly at me.

“And while you’re at,” I continued, “go ahead and begin negotiating my contract with Pablo.”

“Actually,” Dan warned Jimmy, “call my office. You’ll be negotiating with me.”

That was an odd demand from Dan, and I didn’t object. But Jimmy stood there motionless on the courthouse steps. While words failed him, I knew he wouldn’t take this lying down. So as he departed down the steps, I had to get in one more parting shot.

“And Jimmy,” I shouted, “this isn’t over between us.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

And yet another shot at the title (part xix)

“Did you have a good shit?” I asked Dan as I met him back in the courthouse halls.

“You know, as I was squeezing out a turd, I was thinking…” he began to say.

“No, I’ve been thinking,” I interrupted, “call court back in session.”

“It’ll be back in session in one minute.”

“Good. Have Shapiro call me back on the stand.”

“I can’t call the defense’s witnesses for them!”

I chuckled. “Dan, Dan, Dan,” I nodded, “you’re overthinking this. Why don’t you shut your brain off for a moment and let me direct this show.”

“James, this is a court proceeding. Not a movie. I can’t just…”

“Just get me back on the stand for fuck’s sake,” I laughed.

I waltzed back into the courtroom with Dan tentatively following. I buttoned up my jacket, smiled to Shapiro, and took my seat. The Judge banged her gavel. “Court is back in session,” she declared. Dan took center stage.

“I call James Pietermeister to the stand,” he stated.

I stood up, hands in pocket, and whistled a tune as I approached the stand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?” the bailiff asked.

“What the fuck is this? Groundhog Day?” I joked.

No one laughed.

I sat down in the witness seat. Dan didn’t approach the stand and everyone was puzzled. “Are you going to question your client?” the Judge asked him.

“Actually, Your Honor,” I said, “I don’t think the defense was finished with their questioning.”

The Judge looked to Shapiro. “Very well, Your Honor,” he groaned. And the small, piddly attorney approached the bench. “What more is there to say?” Shapiro asked me. “You have no case!”

I put my finger up to my chin. “What more is there to say indeed,” I wondered aloud. “Mr. Shapiro, did you approach Ms. Casandra McHale with several millions of dollars to rewrite Chatty Cathy?”

He started to readjust his tie. “I believe protocol states that only legal counsel can…”

“Did you have a few drinks with Ms. McHale that night?” I hammered on.

A thin veil of sweat began to appear on his forehead. “Uhhh, Your Honor, I believe the witness is in contempt…”

“Answer the question Ben-Jamin!” the Judge ordered.

“Well, as Mr. Greco’s attorney, it is sometimes my responsibility to…” he began to stutter.

“Mr. Shapiro, while you were inebriated with Ms. McHale,” I continued, “did your penis somehow come out of your pants?”

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, “I was merely explaining to Ms. McHale the tattoo I got while on tour in Vietnam. I got my testicle blown off you see. I was on tour promoting my book when I met this prostitute…”

“How big would you say your penis is?” I ask. The Judge was intently focused.

“Well, on a good day, I would say 5.4 inches fully erect but…”

“Your Honor,” I declared, “according to Ms. McHale, Mr. Shapiro’s penis is no more than four inches fully hard. I declare the defense unreliable and I therefore no longer own Mr. Greco $56 billion.”

The judge again banged her gavel. “Agreed! Mr. Pietermeister is no longer liable for a breach of contract as the contract was not made in good faith.”

Shapiro and Jimmy were stunned into silence. “Your Honor, please!” the lawyer begged. But she threw on her robes and departed the court without saying a word.

I laughed heartily. “Sorry, Ben-Jamin,” I said to him as I patted him on the shoulder, “maybe you’re just not cut out for this line of work.”

I could see him fuming. “You made a joke of me for the last time,” he told me. Then he pulled out his Glock, the same Glock he showed the court earlier, and began waving it around. “The Los Angeles Superior Court is a farce!” he screamed.

“Ben-Jamin, calm down buddy. The whole world already knows you have a little ass penis. No need to wave your gun around lol,” I said.

Then he pointed it at me. “Fuck you Pietermeister!”

I closed my eyes in preparation for death. Gun shots rang out but I felt nothing penetrate my body. I opened my eyes and saw Shapiro lying dead on the ground with three gunshots to his chest.

I saw Dan pointing his Colt single action six-shooter and smiling. “Now that’s what I call justice…,” he said. Then twirled his gun and put it back in its holster. “…Texas style.”

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…