 
IN DEVELOPMENT

By

Stan Lerner

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Published By:

Lerner Wordsmith Press

In Development

Copyright 2006 Stanley R. Lerner.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form without permission.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for the incidental references to public figures, institutions, agencies, products, places, services, or companies, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or disparage any company's products or services.

*****

PROLOGUE

Breakfast at the Peninsula

The Peninsula Hotel ranked among Beverly Hills' finest establishments. A modest four stories, its cream-colored exterior walls exuded European elegance. The motor court was paved with Tuscan cobblestone and it curved in a half circle around a spectacular yet understated fountain. Stan Peters arrived for breakfast like clockwork Monday thru Friday at 8:00 in either his black Rolls Royce Phantom or his diamond silver Mercedes Benz SL 500.

This particular morning, he was looking more impeccable than usual. The Ermenegildo Zegna boutique on Rodeo Drive had just taken delivery of its handmade suit collection for the fall season the day before. As always, Stan, the store's best customer and Hollywood's most powerful movie producer, had been there to pick up each of his 31 new suits. He would repeat this routine at several of the city's high-end boutiques; rarely did Stan need or bother to wear the same custom-made suit twice.

The hotel's bell captain, Rick Johnson, was a handsome young man of twenty-five—an aspiring actor. As always, he stepped forward to open Stan's car door himself, rather than delegate such an important task to a valet. Opening the great producer's door was not as optimal as being in one of his movies but it was a step in the right direction. Hollywood's most powerful producer had come to know him by his first name.

The door of the Mercedes opened, as it always did, not requiring any of Stan's own personal exertion. He never took this for granted. He appreciated not being bothered with such trivialities. It was certainly worth a twenty-dollar tip to not have to think about opening and closing the door of his automobile.

The air was just right. Not too warm, not too cold. Not too humid, nor too dry. Just right. Stan had no control over the weather of course, but he had chosen to remain in Los Angeles for exactly this reason—perfect year-round weather.

He stretched his six-foot-one frame as he rose from the 65-way adjustable, heated, and programmable leather car seat. The sound of the fountain filled his ears. Stan smiled the bright white smile of a man whose company was about to go public. A smile that said he was a man on top of the world. That he was talented. That he cared and wanted to encourage others to aspire to his greatness. Yet, he was confident that no man could really be his equal.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said Rick amiably.

"Good morning, Rick. It looks like we're in for some nice weather today. You have to love living in California!" Stan responded, already thinking about the healthy, delectable food he would soon be putting into his perfectly muscled body. A body that at forty was in even better shape than it had been in high school.

"It certainly looks like it's going to be a great day, Mr. Peters. Enjoy your breakfast...Oh, would you like me to have the car washed while you're eating this morning?"

Stan looked at the fine German automobile for a moment. It had just been detailed the day before but he thought it could certainly have gathered some dust not visible to the naked eye but was there nonetheless. "Yeah, better give it a rinse." And with that he turned and walked toward the large double door entrance to the five star hotel.

Again with no effort of his own, the door opened. "Good morning, Mr. Peters."

"Good morning," Stan replied. Other than Rick, he did not know the names of the ten or twenty people that managed his morning breakfast routine. If need be, he could always read their nametags.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said the gentleman next to the doorman.

"Good morning, good morning." And with just a few silent steps, he was at the entry to the Belvedere Room.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said the lovely hostess. "That suit is beautiful." Her dark hair was pulled back and her young eyes shone brilliantly with a nebula of possibilities. "It fits you perfectly. You always look so handsome, but that suit is even more perfect than usual."

"Well thank you...Mary," he said, quickly glancing at her nametag. "The Fall season just came in yesterday. I still have a lot of things to pick up."

"Well, I'll be looking forward to seeing all of it. The usual table or would you like to try the patio today?"

"The usual table would be superlative."

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said Janet, the hostess' supervisor. "It's so nice to see you. I just noticed that the trades are not at your table. I'll bring them right over."

"Thank you, Janet," Stan said, taking the final steps to his table.

He sat down on the soft green cushion and slid over just slightly. The silver was all set correctly and the white tablecloth was blinding, which was what he expected. The hotel knew that he expected this, so only new tablecloths were used at his table. Stan's demeanor was always pleasant but there was no doubt that he would ask for his table to be redressed and set again if he detected even the slightest flaw in its appearance.

The room, which had the feel of a fine garden, blossomed with both Hollywood and business elite. Stan caught many of their gazes as he walked into the room and still more as he sat. When unavoidable, he would flash back a warm smile and give just the slightest nod of his head. He peered for a moment out the glass wall to the patio thinking that the star of his last movie was there having breakfast with her new husband. He had slept with her a few times and was strangely satisfied to see that she was now married.

"Your skinny latte Mr. Peters," said the middle-aged-Pilipino server as he set the large white cup and saucer on the tablecloth directly in front of Stan. Then, with a great deal of concern and concentration, the Pilipino latte server moved the silver sweetener container just to the upper right of Stan's cup and saucer so that he would not have to reach for it at the end of the table.

"And the trades," said Janet, handing Stan both the _Hollywood Reporter_ and _Variety_.

"Thank you, Janet." Stan ripped the small yellow package of sweetener, which he preferred to the blue or the pink packages of sweeteners, and mixed it into his latte and raised the cup for his first caffeinated drink of the day.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters. Will you be having the usual today?" asked the intelligent looking waiter in his late twenties, an aspiring writer of some type.

He had mentioned something about writing one day while in the course of telling Stan that he was a great fan of his. Stan recalled his own empty offer to read some of the young man's work. An empty offer not because Stan was being disingenuous but empty because Stan had observed that most people with aspirations were afraid to succeed. Meaning, no one really wanted their work to be judged by someone who could do something for them.

"Omelet, jack and cheddar..."

"Avocado, fire roasted salsa, Tabasco, and fruit on the side," the waiter said, finishing Stan's sentence. He pushed his round wire-rim glasses a little further up on his nose and smiled.

"No potatoes or bread," Stan added, although he didn't have to because everybody knew that he liked potatoes and bread but didn't eat them to keep his simple carbohydrate intake to a minimum.

All this ass kissing is really something. They do it because you're a powerful man in Hollywood. If they only knew what a lying, thieving, scumbag you really are. Maybe they do know and they don't care. Could that be?

He took a sip of his latte. It tasted better than most because it was made from a coffee bean that was eaten by a small rodent, which then excreted it out in its feces.

Don't be so hard on yourself. To be a successful motion picture producer you have to have talent. And you put in years of hard work developing that talent. Not that it mattered to anyone—fuckers. Be honest with yourself. You got to where you are because you have the most important ingredient—an inexplicable character flaw. Not the, I'm gay and my family won't accept me or I'll show everyone who should have been voted most likely to succeed. No, it's way beyond that.

An old timer with an attractive young companion waved to him from across the room. Stan smiled and gave a nod.

To really be fucked up enough to succeed at this level you had to have been born a nice guy with a good heart. Twenty years of being screwed over, lied to, used, and unappreciated. And one day you were lucky enough to wake up and be you. It didn't happen gradually. It just happened.

Janet returned with an apologetic look. Stan knew without her saying a word what the cause of her guilt happened to be. He handed her the green cloth napkin that had been stretched across his lap and then watched, quite pleased, as she laid the new black napkin in its place. "I'm so sorry about that," she said, the corners of her mouth turned just slightly downwards.

"Not a problem. Thank you, Janet." Stan watched her walk away. The well-fitted navy blue suit she was wearing left no doubt that her body, in spite of her being well into her thirties, was still in excellent shape. She had certainly been a dancer of some type in her youth, Stan imagined.

Sounds like a terrible existence the way you describe it. It's not. Your life is a dream life and you wouldn't have it any other way. I wish someone could just love me for me. Too late. You got the fancy cars, great food, the world-class pussy, the incredible houses in ten different countries, an amount of money in the bank that even you can't spend. So many women, so little time...Wall Street loves you.

"Your omelet, sir."

"Thank you. It looks wonderful."

"Can I bring you anything else?"

Stan looked lustfully across the room at the attractive blonde with the old goat who had been pleasant enough to wave. "No, this will be fine for now."

"Well then, enjoy your breakfast, sir."

Stan's fork cut through the well-whipped, triple grade A, cage free, grain fed, organic, brown egg with ease. The egg, cheese, avocado, fire roasted salsa, and Tabasco delighted his taste buds. And just as he swallowed it happened—a sickening moment of self-doubt.

The only thing that can fuck up the Peters Entertainment IPO is a bad project. In highly advanced industry terminology, 'A piece of shit movie'. Not to be confused with a shitty movie the manipulative scumbags in marketing can save with some kind of bullshit MacDonald's cross promotion. No—the kind of movie that gets fucked up by some tight ass, wanna-be- cool, college graduate, studio executive, a producer's worst nightmare, maybe even a career killer. What a terrible thought. It'll never happen to you. You're Stan Peters for fuck sake. You don't make piece of shit movies.

Stan decided it was a waste of time to let his mind continue to ponder the meaning of life. He reached for the _Hollywood Reporter_ and began to read the horrifying news on the front page.

CHAPTER ONE

Powerful Men

At age 86, Sumner Ballsworth III, ruled Ballcom's 450 diversified companies with an iron fist. At his command, the directors sat in the boardroom located on the 69th story of Ballcom Tower. A massive building that had long been an anchor of the Manhattan skyline.

Sumner sat at the head of the table; his younger brother and lifelong nemesis Nelson sat to his left, his close friend and vice chairman, Randolph, sat to his right. Sumner took his time as he let his eyes roam around the table, and then rubbed the deep creases of the skin that hung loosely around his jaw line. He cleared his throat, as he always did before starting a meeting, and the room fell silent.

"I now call to order a meeting of the Ballcom board of directors." Turning to Randolph, "Our first order of business is?"

Randolph, while the same age as Sumner, looked ten years younger. A stout man to begin with, his love of food had assured that his skin would always be stretched to a more youthful tautness. "Our fist order of business, is soaring profits in our Entertainment Sector," announced Randolph.

Sumner stared down the table at Michael Eisenfeld. "Can you explain why entertainment profits are up three hundred percent again? Our friends at the Security and Exchange Commission tell me that people who are not our friends are starting to take an interest in our remarkably good fortune. I trust there are no accounting irregularities."

Eisenfeld shrugged. "Entertainment is a different beast, Mr. Chairman. It takes individuals with unique skill sets..."

"I'm not going to tolerate this nonsense!" interrupted Sumner's brother, Nelson. He turned to his older brother. "Grandfather, would not approve of the types of people that we're dealing with in this business or the revolting product we're putting into the market place." Nelson pointed toward Eisenfeld. "He knows damn well that Mechanic is turning a blind eye to behavior that's not only unethical but immoral at the studio to make the kind of money that pads his bonus. "

"These people make us a lot of money," said Eisendfeld, in shock that he had to defend making a profit. Eisenfeld looked to Sumner hoping that he would reel in Nelson.

Sumner shook his head. "I have to go with Nelson on this. How the hell are they making so much money, Michael? Entertainment, was supposed to be a tax write off for us."

Eisenfeld had been successfully ambushed and knew it. "The Peters Entertainment deal has turned out to exceed all of our expectations."

Sumner's bushy gray eyebrows rose. "More explanation, Michael."

"Well, Mechanic lets Peters do what he wants and he seems to have a unique understanding of what the public's appetite for entertainment happens to be. "

Sumner's demeanor warmed slightly. "I knew his grandfather. Name used to be Petersburg. Made fortunes in paint and auto parts."

"Well the grandson is making a fortune on crap. And we're paying for it." Nelson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"We don't pay for all of it," Eisenfeld said, knowing that the cat was out of the bag.

"Of course we do." Nelson had no idea.

Eisenfeld sighed. "Co-financing. Peter's has been bringing in a lot of outside money."

Nelson's eyes bulged. An alert assistant stepped forward with a glass of water and a nitro pill for his heart. "Other people's money! Ballcom doesn't have partners! We own everything!" The assistant pushed the pill and the water in front of him insistently. Nelson placed the white pill in his mouth and gulped some water. But before he could resume Sumner held up his hand.

"Michael, co-financing..." Sumner shook his head. "Is there anything else we should know?"

"Next week, Peters plans on going public. Initially, he'll pipeline money into the company but he'll go to work shortly there after setting up credit lines against his stock. He'll want a new contract guaranteeing straight distribution from us—for a reasonable fee."

"Get rid of him!" Nelson demanded.

Sumner, who never smiled, smiled and began to laugh. He looked down at the table and composed himself. "Get rid of Peters, for what? Being ambitious."

"I'm the second largest shareholder of Ballcom stock—heads must roll." Nelson looked toward Eisenfeld.

Sumner followed his brother's stare. "Well Michael, you made a profit but broke the rules."

The blood drained from Eisenfeld's face. He sat at the table, white as a sheet and speechless.

"Fire Mechanic and," Sumner continued after what had been a disturbing pause, "put someone in charge over there that understands our expectations." Sumner turned to Nelson. "Are you happy now?"

Nelson smiled. "I want all candidates for the job run by my office for approval. And I want to be the one to tell the new guy to clean things up."

Sumner looked at Eisenfeld, who had been spared only to spite his brother and because entertainment had earned billions. "Did you get that, Michael?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman. I'll make the necessary changes. What about the Peters IPO?"

Sumner stared past the end of the table, out the window, seeing everything. "I'll take care of that personally."

CHAPTER TWO

Bad News

Stan sat restlessly behind his oversized, half-circle, stainless steel Pace Collection desk. His drive to the Peters Entertainment Building in Century City had been an almost unbearable five minutes. He stared down at the _Hollywood Reporter_ framed by the black granite inlay that served as the top of his desk.

"'From Harvard to Hollywood—Jones promoted to head of studio.' Can you believe it? Brad Jones, that no-talent East Coast cocksucker is running a studio!" Stan looked up from the _Reporter_ and across his desk at his short, corpulent, gray-haired, associate producer of many years, Iren Shmeklestein.

"Believe it, you shmuck! I told you we should have gone to Disney with this project."

"Disney? Are you insane? Do you think Disney is going to make a movie called "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho"? Whatever toes you were sucking on last night must have been laced with something."

"If you had just seen the feet on this chick." Iren smiled an obscene smile and continued.

"They were beautiful. I can't understand why you're not attracted to feet. You don't even want to know what she could do with them."

"You're right, I don't want to know."

Iren ignored him. "After I sucked on them for an hour I had her massage my balls with her toes."

"Did she stick them up your ass and massage your prostate?" Stan asked, suddenly finding himself interested in Iren's foot fetish.

"No. My asshole is way too tight for that kind of thing. Oh, that would hurt. I'm puckering up just thinking about it. Would you let a chick do that to you?" Iren turned his head slightly to the left and his right eyebrow went up like a curious Vulcan. "C'mon, be honest with me."

"Yeah, why not?" Stan shrugged, "I mean, as long as her feet weren't like the size of Shaque's."

"You know I respect your honesty when it comes to these things. But seriously, what if it was Shaque's foot, would you take it up the ass for ten million dollars?"

Stan laughed. "I'd let Brad Jones stick his foot up my ass for ten million dollars."

A gruff voice emanated from the doorway. "You might have to," the always-perturbed Ray Delecrotch said as he walked into the room.

Stan turned his head toward his other longtime associate producer. Ray, at sixty-three, was ten years older than Iren and more than twenty years older than Stan. But despite his age, Stan had decided to keep him around. Ray did at least have the decency to dye his hair black. "Have you gained weight? It looks like you swallowed a bowling ball," Stan commented.

Ray ignored his boss's observation. "Because that's how much fucking money we're going to lose if that no class, talentless prick, shit-cans our movie. I'm sure the boys on Wall Street will love a fuck-up like this a week before our IPO. "

Stan's face tensed slightly—a mixture of concern, disgust, and confusion. "We spent ten million dollars in development on a movie about two wacky Jew producers? You have to be kidding me. Who's the idiot that okayed that?"

"You did, putz face," Iren said, no longer able to think about the feet he had made love to the night before. "You paid yourself a million-dollar writer's fee and rewrote the thing nine times."

"That's only nine million, where'd the other million go?" Stan gave a disgusted wave. "Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"You rented a private island for a year as a writer's retreat," Iren reminded him.

"Writer's retreat? Then what were you doing there?" Stan asked sarcastically.

Iren pointed at himself. "You think you're a better writer than I am?"

"Iren, my second grade homework was better than the shit you come up with."

"Would you two focus. We need to make sure that the studio doesn't kick this fucking movie to the curb. By the way, do I want to know where we got the ten million from?"

Stan looked at Iren and then back to Ray. "Some old lady in Pasadena."

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Ray asked, not believing that they could really be that fortunate.

"Iren befriended her husband just before he croaked," Stan assured. "It was actually pretty easy to get the money out of the old bag. All I had to do was tell her that we would dedicate the movie to her loving husband's memory. And, off the record, Iren agreed to suck on her old, shriveled up, callused heels."

Iren nodded his affirmation. "Let me tell you, she doesn't have bad feet for an old lady."

"You guys are being straight with me?" Ray asked, sounding just slightly less irritable.

"You didn't get the money from one of your unsavory buddies?"

Iren swiveled the gray mohair chair in Ray's direction. "Define unsavory?"

Stan smiled at Iren. "Your sister."

Iren swiveled his chair back toward Stan. "That bitch would steal candy from a deaf, dumb, blind kid. Tell the truth—would you have sex with a deaf, dumb, blind girl?"

"Of course he would, he'd marry her if he was smart," Ray said, matter-of-factly. "If I wasn't so fucking old I'd be hanging out over at the Brail Institute myself. Where else are you going to find a nice girl in this fucking town?"

"I'd date a deaf, dumb, blind, girl. Assuming she's hot like that chick in "Children of a Lesser God"," Stan said, feeling that Ray might be on to something. Stan held up his right hand, opening and closing his fingers without saying a word.

"What are you doing?" asked Iren.

"Practicing my sign language."

"What's that mean?"

"It's Helen Keller having an orgasm."

"You guys always pull this shit on me," Ray said shaking his head.

Stan and Iren looked at him. "What shit?" Stan asked innocently.

"Changing the subject."

Stan held up his hand acknowledging the point. "This is definitely a different subject, but isn't your nose big even for an Italian guy?"

"Unsavory like—drug dealers, gangsters—criminal unsavory." Ray stared at Stan making sure he wouldn't be digressing any further.

"Absolutely not," Stan's tone was insistent. "I swear on Iren's hemorrhoids that we emptied an old lady's bank account."

"Did I tell you my hemorrhoids are killing me?" Iren asked, shifting his weight in his chair.

"Not like my back." Stan gave his lower fifth lumbar a gentle rub. "I think I have early-onset arthritis."

"You guys swear, no fucking around?" asked Ray, thinking that his ulcer might be acting up.

Stan pulled the gold Mont Blanc from his pocket and began rotating it across his knuckles. "I don't even know any criminals."

Marle's voice had a heavy New Jersey accent as it came through the intercom. "Stan?"

"Yes, Marle dearest. What is it?" Stan asked, his always-troublesome secretary.

"I have Carlos Escobar on the phone, he says he needs to talk to you about the Laundromat business. He says you know what he's talking about."

"I'll call him back. Thank you."

"The Laundromat business?" Ray was immediately suspicious.

"It's the next big thing," Stan said without missing a beat. Then, he looked innocently at Iren.

"In South America," Iren agreed, with a nod and a wink that Ray could not see.

"Anyway, let's forget about the whole criminal thing..." Stan suggested just as Marle's voice intruded through the intercom again.

"Stan?"

"What?" he yelled out the door rather than into the intercom.

"I've got Dominick Luciano on the phone. He wants to know if you can meet him in Vegas tonight to discuss your idea about forming a Teamster's Union Entertainment Fund."

"Tell him I'm just a little busy right now please." Exasperated, he looked back from the door to Iren and Ray. "The phone doesn't ring all fucking morning, Brad Jones is running a studio and now everything goes crazy. I mean who the fuck else is going to call during this time of crisis?"

"How about the Pope?" Iren smiled and nodded.

"Stan?" Marle's voice was even louder and more nagging than before.

"Tell whoever it is to fuck off!" Stan shouted loudly out the door. "This is just unbelievable," he turned and said to Iren and Ray.

Marle's hot, young, size zero body stood in the doorway. "It's the Pope—you can tell him to fuck off yourself."

Stan reached for the phone with haste. "Pope, it's always so good to hear from you...Yes, Iren is sitting right across the desk from me...Sure, I'll put you on speakerphone." Stan hit the button and shrugged as his co-producers looked at him uncomfortably.

The Pope's voice was a deep and raspy growl with a heavy European accent. "Shmucks, eight percent on our money—we can get that in the bank and not tie up our cash for eighteen months at a time. Stan, if you and that little putz you call a co-producer can't do better than eight percent this year, I'm going to pull the plug on you two. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Listen, Your Majesty..."

"Excellency, not Majesty you thieving Jew prick." The Pope not so kindly corrected.

"Whatever," Stan rolled his eyes. "We're doing our best. Out of what little decency we have we've been putting the Vatican's money into our safest films. Mostly animated shit for kids."

"Fuck the kids shit!" screamed the Pope. "Have some balls and put us into something with some tits and ass! That's where the fucking money's at!"

"Well I was worried about the church's reputation," Stan said in his own defense.

"Who the fuck died and made you Pope? I've got priests banging little boys by the thousands. That means lawsuits up the ass, and that means settlements up the ass. Millions and millions of dollars paid to a bunch of fucking crybabies who can't take a little consecrated affection. So put some sex and violence on the fucking screen and get me my twenty percent. Do you fucking understand me?"

"Yes, Pope," answered Stan, feeling pummeled by the pontiff.

"Good!" was the last word they heard before the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down.

Ray slouched down in his chair and shook his head. "You pissed off the Pope. That's fucking great."

Stan hit the off button, silencing the beeping phone receiver. "What a ball-buster he can be. That's what happens when you go eighty years without getting any pussy."

"We'll be going the next eighty years without pussy if that prick Brad starts fucking around with this movie and blows our IPO," Ray said with a sense of impending doom.

"I'm not letting that no-talent shmuck tell me how to do my job!" Iren said in a state of alarm.

"If you don't, he'll put the fucking thing in turn around," Ray said, making matters worse.

"Listen to me, that jackass isn't going to tell you how to do your job." Stan's voice was calm and reasonable. "And trust me, he's not putting our movie in turn around. Now that he's a bigshot, he won't give a shit about us."

Iren's fat cheeks had turned red. "You know I'll put the little prick in his place."

"I'll punch him right in the fucking face if I even think he's going to put us in turn around," Ray added.

"Just let me handle this Ivy League, creatively challenged cocksucker. And that's if he ever gets to us on his bullshit things to do list. I mean, come on, what type of loser would start poking his shit stuffed from too much ass kissing nose into our movie?"

"Stan." Marle's voice was filling the airwaves again. "I've got Brad Jones on the phone. He says it's very important."

Stan shook his head. "What a pathetic nebish."

"What a piece of shit," Iren said, then pretended to spit on the floor.

"Fucking lowlife," Ray said, making a fist with his right hand and slamming it into the palm of his left hand.

"Put him through," Stan advised Marle, then waited a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Brad, how are you doing? It's so good to hear from you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Have you read the trades today?" Brad's voice was a mixture of good-cheer and serious business.

"No, I've been in an editing session for the last thirty-six hours," Stan said trying to sound as clueless as possible. " Is everything okay, I've been completely out of touch with the world."

For some reason Iren decided to hold up the _Hollywood Reporter_ that had been on Stan's desk. Stan acknowledged this with the hand job motion. Ray flipped off the phone then bit his own knuckles.

"Thirty-six hours?" Brad sounded incredibly impressed. "Goodness gracious man, I don't know how you do it."

"We never miss a deadline or a budget around here," Stan said, turning the confidence up just slightly. "When the studio does business with us, it's family. You know that we love you guys."

Iren commenced sticking his tongue through his fingers like he was licking a pussy. This encouraged Ray to start sticking his index finger through his other hand—the universal fucking signal.

Brad's voice became warm and generous. "Stan, that's so nice of you to say. We're very fond of you around here and you know I am personally a huge fan of your work."

The gold Mont Blanc fell from Stan's hand as Iren bent Ray over his chair and pretended to fuck him in the ass.

"Thanks Brad, that really means a lot to me. Someone with your education and talent, supporting what we do, you know I really don't even know what to say." Stan's face registered the revulsion of seeing that Iren had Ray down on all fours. He couldn't help but remember the day he passed on a script about two gay cowboys—a two hundred million dollar mistake.

Two cowboys fucking in a tent. Who could have predicted that one would be a hit?

"Honestly, one day if the board of directors is smart, they'll put you in charge of everything."

"Well Stan, actually that's why I called. It was just announced today in the trades—I'm the new head of the studio."

"Congratulations! It's about time, I mean good, you deserve it. I'm sure you're going to be super busy. But when things settle down in the next couple of years, I'd love to talk to you about what we're up to over here."

"Stan, things are going to be different. I plan to be very hands on."

"Even better." Stan's brow wrinkled as his cheeks retracted upward. "I mean, it's about time there's someone on top who cares about what's going on in the trenches."

"I care Stan and I'm really glad you feel that way. I had my concerns."

Stan couldn't imagine things getting much worse when he heard Marle scream. She had come to hand deliver his mail only to see Iren apparently humping Ray on the floor. It was shocking even for a Jewish girl from Jersey.

Stan rubbed his forehead. "I'm a team player, Brad, you know that."

"Stan, I have my concerns about this comedy you guys have in development. I know we're committed to production funding, but creatively speaking "Two Jews and A Blonde Psycho" just seems to be missing something. And Stan, I've given your cast list a very close look. For lack of a better word, I hate it."

Iren and Ray, prompted by Marle's scream, had returned to their respective seats. Iren began writing something on a notepad.

"Brad, if things don't work out for you as a studio boss you should become a psychic. I was just having this exact conversation with Ray and Iren. We're completely on the same page."

Iren held up the notepad, which read, "you miserable cocksucker" accompanied by a picture of Brad on his knees orally copulating a very well endowed man.

"Creatively speaking," Brad's voice was all business now, "I want you to make this movie more red-state friendly. Maybe the movie could end with the main characters seeing the light and converting to Christianity."

"Yeah, maybe something more like "The Passion of the Christ"." Stan sighed, thinking that he might wake up any moment from this nightmare.

"Now you're talking! And Stan, pull out all of the bad language and sex scenes. This thing needs to fly with a G rating. The profanity makes the whole thing feel too urban. I'm not interested in doing a Spike Lee movie here."

"Not a problem Brad. Anything else?"

"Well actually there is. I want you to cut the budget for the soundtrack in half and get Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play the leads."

Ray held up the notepad which now read, "Why not Mel Gibson since we're making the fucking "Passion"?"

"Mel Gibson?" Stan said, accidentally reading Ray's sign out loud.

"I like Mel. And a Jew movie might help him get past his anti-Semitic public image." Brad paused. "If you can't get both Tom and Russell, I'll let you substitute Mel for either one. But I really want Tom Cruise in this movie. For the blonde psycho, Renee Zellweger works for me. I liked her and Tom in "Jerry Maguire"."

"Why not Anne Heche? Playing a psycho wouldn't be much of a stretch."

Brad laughed. "Stan you haven't lost a step. That's hilarious, a lesbian in a Christian-friendly movie, you kill me."

Just then Iren held up a sign that read, "Let's really kill him."

Ray followed by holding up a sign that read, "I got someone who will do it for ten grand."

Brad returned to his serious tone and continued, "No, just stick to Renee or Nicole Kidman if you can get her. Nicole works for me."

"You know her and Tom got a divorce?" Stan immediately wondered why he had bothered to mention it.

"Oh, I didn't know they were married." Brad was clueless even for a studio executive. "Do you think it presents a problem?"

Stan rested his elbows on his desk and let his head sink into his hands for a moment. The stupidity of the conversation weighed on him like an aircraft carrier. "Problems are meant to be solved, Brad. Anyway, the guys and I are just raring to go on all of this! So we better get cracking."

"That a boy, Stan!" Brad shouted, apparently infected with Stan's insincere enthusiasm. "I'd like to see everything in place by the end of the day tomorrow. Can do?"

"Can do Brad. Not a problem," Stan said, flipping off the phone. "Oh and say hi to that beautiful wife of yours. I'd love to have you both over for dinner soon to celebrate your promotion."

"We'd love to come over," Brad gushed, "Binkie is an even bigger fan of your work than I am. When I told her about the promotion, she said I should make working with you on this project my top priority."

"Well that explains it," Stan let slip.

"Explains what?" asked Brad.

Iren and Ray looked at Stan hoping for a quick recovery.

"Our good fortune to have you so involved." Stan beamed with satisfaction toward Iren and Ray as they bowed that they weren't worthy in front of his desk. Stan put his hand to his ear. "I'll be right there," he shouted to nobody off in the distance. "Brad I have to jump, give my love to Binkie..."

"Talk to you tomo..."

Stan hung up the phone before Brad could finish... "That stupid, evangelical bitch wife of yours."

"You know we have to kill this guy," Iren said with complete resolve.

"He's right. I say we kill him," agreed Ray.

Iren, content that he and Ray were in agreement, turned to Stan. "Casting Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play two Jews is almost as ridiculous as casting Michael Jackson to play a baby-sitter."

Stan nodded. "That would probably work for Brad."

"Stop fucking around." Ray's voice sounded more exasperated than usual. "If we're going to kill this guy we need to get serious. We need a good plan."

"When Brad and that meddling bitch wife of his come over your house for dinner, we could poison them," Iren suggested earnestly.

Stan shook his head. "We're not killing anybody you lunatics. I mean, what type of scumbags have we become that we would resort to killing someone to save a movie from turn around...when we could simply resort to blackmail?"

Iren nodded. "Blackmail... I like it."

"Blackmail is good," Ray agreed. " But this guy is straight as a fucking arrow. He's the perfect family man."

Stan's brow rose, as his head tilted forward making him look positively sinister. "Not for long—but let me take care of that. In the meantime, we better cover our asses and do what he wants. Iren, get on the Tom Cruise / Russell Crowe thing. Ray, you get Renee Zellweger or Nicole Kidman. I'll swing into action on the whole blackmail situation..."

Marle's voice was once again coming through the intercom. "Hey it's me. We're celebrating my one-year anniversary as your secretary out here. You want to stop by or something?"

"Yeah, of course. We're on our way," answered Stan feeling satisfied that things were under control.

CHAPTER THREE

Hello Brad

"Mr. Jones, should I begin packing your files?"

Brad looked up at his secretary, the venerable Mrs. Beasely. A woman well into her sixties, she had been a fixture at the studio for more than forty years. "That won't be necessary; I'm going to stay in this office."

Mrs. Beasely rarely smiled but her face warmed slightly when she approved of an executive's decision. "You don't think you'll be needing more space?"

"There'll be some additional staff." Brad looked around the office, "But this will be fine for me. It's been a lucky office. Besides, there's a lot of work to do to get this place straightened out. I don't want to create a distraction."

"Good." And with that one word of affirmation she turned and walked back to her desk in the outer office of Brad's suite.

Brad opened his desk drawer and pulled out the latest edition of Sports Illustrated. His parents had bought him a subscription for his tenth birthday and he had been reading it ever since. With great enthusiasm he opened to the first page—only to be interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

"Yes, Mrs. Beasely."

"I have Rick Sheinberg on the line for you."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something. Is it important?"

"He said to tell you there's a problem on the set of "Kevin's World"."

Brad opened the desk drawer and dropped Sports Illustrated in—exasperated. "Put him through." Brad gave the magazine one last glance and shut the drawer.

"Hey Brad, are you there?"

"Yeah Rick, I'm here. What's going on?"

"We have a hundred thousand gallons of water on the set of Kevin's World. That's what's going on... Oh, by the way, congratulations on the promotion."

"Thanks Rick, it was a nice surprise."

"So, what should I do about the water?"

"What water?" Brad turned over the antique hourglass on his desk so he could watch the sand pour through the small hole from one side to the other.

"The water on the set, Brad."

"I don't know. What do you usually do with water on the set?" Brad picked up his Etch a Sketch and turned the white knob on the right. "Whatever it is, do that."

"We've never had a hundred thousand gallons of water on a set before, so there is no protocol. Now that you're head of the studio it's up to you to create one."

"Oh... Well how'd the water get there? I mean since we don't normally have any."

"The fire marshal turned off the fire control system..."

"The what system?" Brad interrupted.

"The sprinklers that come on when there's a fire. He turned them off, or at least he thought he did..."

"Why turn off the sprinklers?"

"Brad, just out of curiosity when was the last time you were on a set?"

"That's none of your business, Rick. Just answer my question." Silence. "Twenty years ago, I was on a set, once."

For $600,000.00 dollars a film, three films a year, Rick didn't mind assuming the role of educator. It had been the same when they worked in the mailroom together. "When we build a set on location, we turn off sprinklers because the lights, the big 10k's we use, get hot enough to set off the system. This time it turns out that the ceiling we were looking at was a sub-ceiling. The fire marshal turned off the sprinklers in the sub-ceiling but not the ones above in the real ceiling. There was no way to know they had even gone off, the water just pooled up in the sub-ceiling until it came down, all one hundred thousand gallons. Luckily, no one was hurt."

"Rick, between you and me, what would someone say like...say...Stan Peters do in a situation like this?"

"He'd throw a lot of money at it." Rick paused. There was a chance that Brad might take him literally. "What I meant by that is he'd have a thousand guys down here rebuilding the set around the clock. He'd probably rent some airplane engines and use them as fans to dry the place out. I could call him and ask if you want."

Brad put down the Etch a Sketch. "I told you, this stays between us. Just do what Stan would do. Comprendo?"

"Brad, you do realize this is going to throw off our shooting schedule? There'll be penalties to pay at all the other locations for being late."

Brad put his elbow on the desk and rested the side of his head in his hand. "What would Stan do?"

"He'd pay the penalties and make some kind of ridiculous product placement deal to offset the cost."

"There you go. Can you handle it from here on out or do you still need more of my input?"

"No. I think I can take it from here." Rick infused still further mockery into his words. "You've been a lifesaver Brad, thanks."

"Good luck! Let me know how it goes." Brad hung up the phone satisfied that he had handled his first task as the head of the studio appropriately.

"Mr. Jones, I have Sherry Jacobson on the line," said Mrs. Beasley over the intercom before Brad could retrieve his Sports Illustrated and resume reading.

Brad picked up the phone. "Sherry Jacobson. Who's that?"

"She's the head of development," said Mrs. Beasley in her usual dry tone.

"Well that's good to know. So what exactly does she do?"

"She works with writers to make sure that the scripts we acquire are up to the studio's standard of excellence."

Brad sighed. "Put her through...Hello Mary."

"Hi Brad...My name is actually Sherry, Sherry Jacobson."

Brad snapped his fingers together—frustrated that he hadn't gotten the name right. "Sorry Sherry. What can I do for you?"

"We have a real problem with M Day Blabonandon."

"You've got to be kidding."

"No, he's very unhappy. And I think he might be writing a tell-all book."

"I meant you have to be kidding that there's actually someone named M Day Blabonandon. What is he, a foreigner?"

"He's Indian."

"I thought they usually have names like Running Deer."

"Brad, he's from India. He's not an American Indian."

"India's a Third World country." Brad laughed. "What's he unhappy about? He lives here. Probably doesn't like how we treat cows."

"He's unhappy because I told him his new script sucks. "The Seventh Sense" was brilliant. But since then, every script just keeps getting worse and worse. I can't sign off on this one—it's a loser. Oh, I left out the best part. He sees himself playing a character in the movie that turns out to be the savior of the world."

"Sherry, just out of curiosity, what do you think a guy like...say...Stan Peters would do with this crazy Indian?"

"Stan would've thrown him out on his ass three movies ago, Brad."

"So why have we kept him around?"

"He fills our minority hiring quota. His movies suck but his wacky sounding name makes us look good."

"I see." Brad thought for a moment. "Lose the Indian and get a Chinaman. That ought to do the trick."

"We have a script about a female martial artist in China that I've been wanting the studio to take a risk on for a longtime. And making a movie in China will be cheap. They pay their people a dollar a month and you don't have to worry about health insurance, lawsuits, polluting the environment—Communist China has turned into a capitalist's heaven. I'm talking pure unadulterated exploitation."

"Good. Tell M Day it's his last day and greenlight the China project."

"I'm on it, Brad."

Brad hung up the phone. "This isn't so hard."

"Mr. Jones I have Rick Sheinberg for you again."

"Put him through." Brad leaned back in his chair. "Rick, long time no talk."

"Sorry to bug you again, Brad. But I just made a call to see if I couldn't pick up a quick product placement deal to offset all of the flood related new costs. I think I have one."

"What did you come up with, Rick?"

"How do you feel about Trojans? If you like 'em, we're covered. No pun intended." Rick knew the studio would never do a deal on rubbers but thought he should run it by Brad just to cover his own ass.

"What, are you kidding me? I was a USC football fan even when I was at Harvard. Do the deal, Rick!" Brad's eyes went wide as Nelson Ballsworth, trailed by a large assistant with a handlebar mustache known only as the Colonel, walked into his office unannounced and sat in the chair in front of his desk. Nelson wore a brown, tweed, three- piece-suit with a pocket watch chain stretched prominently across the right side of the vest. Nelson peered at Brad through round wire-rim glasses.

"I've got to go, Rick." Brad hung up the phone and rose to his feet. "Mr. Ballsworth. What an unexpected pleasure."

Nelson pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. He did so when talking to underlings so that they understood they did not merit his full attention—ever. "Sit down, Brad. I have some matters I'd like to discuss with you." He closed the ornate gold face of the watch and retuned it to its pocket in his vest.

"Yes, sir," Brad said sitting like a well-trained Labrador retriever.

Rick Sheinberg stood on the soaked set and looked at the cell phone in his hand. "He said yes. I can't believe it."

"Maybe he's not as big a geek as everyone says," said Rick's uninformed personal assistant, Bobby.

"He thinks a deal with Trojan Condoms has something to do with USC football," Rick said, wondering if he should just take a yes for yes.

Bobby answered, trying not to laugh, "This guy actually does give new meaning to the term dickhead."

Brad's bladder trembled; the sensation to urinate was almost uncontrollable. "What matters would those be, Mr. Ballsworth? Also, Mr. Ballsworth, may I just say what a great admirer I am of you and your family. In fact, I'm a graduate of the Ballsworth School of Business."

"Brad, I picked you to head the studio because I don't like the trash we've been spoon-feeding the American public. My brother is tickled that what was supposed to be a tax write off is making billions but I actually care about our legacy."

"I agree, sir. I've already started cleaning things up. I just got off the phone with Sherry Jacobson..."

"And fired her I hope," Nelson interrupted. "The head of development at this studio is about to have a child with another woman."

Brad winced. "How is that possible?"

"She's a dyke, Brad. A carpet muncher, totally ill-suited to be making decisions that require moral clarity."

Brad gulped. "I'll fire her immediately! I had no idea."

"Beau Carlson. Have you heard that name before?"

"No sir."

"He has an office on the lot. Not because we've given him one, but because he's screwing our director of real estate. If that's not bad enough, I have it on good authority that he's a drug dealer."

"A drug dealer on the lot! I'll have him arrested straight away."

Nelson smiled. He was pleased with Brad's level of moral outrage. "Have his girlfriend arrested also. It will set a good example for our next director of real estate. Now, on a more serious note, the studio's biggest star is a scientologist. What do you plan to do about that?"

"A what?" Brad asked, stumped.

"A scientologist. We're making movies with a star that belongs to a cult that worships little green men from Mars or Zeon or somewhere. I want this wacko off the lot."

Brad nodded. "I'll put it at the top of my list."

"Make it look like he's a financial liability or my brother will hit the roof."

"But he's brought in billions."

"His last movie would have brought in more, I'd say a hundred and fifty million more, if he wasn't always talking to the press about his Martian friends and their crazy religion. When my brother hears we have a hundred and fifty million dollars less than we should have—outer space boy is out."

"Mr. Ballsworth, your business acumen is stunning."

"I know. Let's talk about Stan Peters. Quite the interesting fellow."

Brad's confidence soared. "I have him making a religious themed movie about Jews that see the light."

Nelson's face went flush. "Really! I'm told he's a carouser, a womanizer, fond of drink and gambling. Are you telling me he's not bringing in billions on smut movies?"

Brad cleared his throat. "Well sir, it's true that Stan has in the past made some provocative movies, three of which have won Academy Awards. But he is a good movie maker. And frankly, he's completely loyal to me. If we take him under our wing, I believe he can be saved. He's told me personally that he wants my guidance."

Nelson snorted then grumbled before speaking. "My brother seems to see something in him also."

"Sir, why don't you drop in on him and decide for yourself." Brad leaned forward. "He's a good egg, you'll see."

Nelson's eyes narrowed. "For your sake, Brad, he better be." He then reached into his interior jacket pocket, withdrawing a folded piece of paper—which he extended to Brad, who took it without hesitation. "This is a list of the rest of the people you are to get rid of today. All undesirables."

Brad unfolded the paper and looked at the sixty names on the list. "They will all be gone by tonight, Mr. Ballsworth."

Sherry had just given the news to M Day that he was finished at the studio when her water broke. Fortunately, her life partner Emily had stopped by the office to meet for lunch and was able to take her immediately to the hospital.

"Breathe! Breathe!" coached Emily.

Sherry stared up at the delivery room ceiling. "Fuck, this hurts! "

"Breathe!"

"Why the fuck did I let you talk me into this! Ahhhhh!"

"I didn't talk you into this. We mutually agreed that your hips we more conducive to child bearing. Breathe!"

"You mean I'm fatter! Fuuuuuuck!"

The doctor had delivered other Hollywood brats and was used to the stupidity of their parents. "Ladies, need I remind you that your child is able to sense your discord? Do you want your child to be born unhappy? I think not."

"Fuck! Is that my cell phone ringing?"

Emily shook her head. "You wouldn't."

"It might be the office! Hand me the fucking phone you bitch! Or you can get a job and pay the bills."

Emily retrieved Sherry's phone and handed it to her. Tears ran down her face: staining her surgical mask. "I can't believe we did Landmark together and you still talk to me like this."

Ignoring her—Sherry answered the phone. "Sherry...Jacobson!"

"Hi Sherry, it's Brad. Did I get you at a bad time? You sound a little winded."

"No, it's okay. I'm in the delivery room giving birth right now, so I'm a little uncomfortable. I fired M Day. He cried like a baby but too bad. He had it coming for writing such crap."

"Thanks for getting right on the M Day situation, Sherry. Why don't we talk face to face when you're done having your child?"

"What do you mean face to face? What do we need to talk face to face about? For five years you haven't even known my name. What are you keeping from me, Brad?"

"You're fired, Sherry. Sorry to tell you while you're having a child and all. But maybe it is better just to get it out of the way. I'll have your office packed up for you."

"Fuuuuck! I'm having a baby and you fire me! I have a family to support."

"I'm sorry, Sherry. My decision is final. I'm sure your husband will be able to take care of you during your time of need."

"My husband?"

"You did tell HR that you were married when you came to work at the studio. Our records show that the studio pays healthcare benefits for you and your spouse. Has there been a mistake?"

Sherry looked up at her blubbering partner Emily. "We all make mistakes, Brad." She pressed end and threw the phone to the floor. "Fuuuuck!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Happy Anniversary

The reception counter was made from rich Brazilian mahogany and topped with the same black granite used for Stan's desk. Marle's lavish cake, from Hansen's of Beverly Hills, sat on top of the counter. Stan enjoyed watching her bend over just slightly to blow out the giant candle, which had been shaped into the number one to signify one year of diligent and loyal service to the company.

As the air from her soft puckered lips extinguished the flame; her fellow employees began to clap.

"I can't believe it's been a year already," Stan said, flashing his famous smile. "I remember your interview like it was yesterday."

Marle glared at him. "So do I."

The ad was enticing. "Successful Entertainment Industry Executive seeks motivated assistant. Pays top dollar. Will train."

Marle walked into Stan's office for the first time wearing a sundress that came to mid-thigh. The cotton fabric, printed with a light green and pink floral design, made her look particularly innocent.

Just the way I like them.

Stan pointed Marle to one of the gray, mohair barrel chairs in front of his desk. "Please have a seat." His voice was satin smooth. He admired her legs as she sat and tried to pay attention to what she was saying. It wasn't easy for him to do.

"Thank you, Mr. Peters, for the opportunity to interview with your company." She looked around the office—obviously impressed to the point of being overwhelmed. "This is really nice."

Just the words Stan liked to hear. "Thanks. I decorated it myself."

Her eyes widened. "I can't even imagine. It must be amazing to be you."

"Actually, it is rather amazing." Stan paused and tried to give off an air of humility by lowering his voice. "You know, it wasn't always like this. I started in this business with nothing. I used to go to bed hungry at night." He rotated his extra-large black leather Pace Collection executive chair slightly to the right. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the _LA Times'_ article—framed and hanging on the wall behind him that read, "Heir to the Peters' fortune hits it big in Hollywood at just 17-years-old!"

"Really?" Marle asked, buying the story completely. They all did.

"Yeah, really. But you know what made me successful? Can you guess what I have going for me that most people don't?"

Marle shook her head. "No. But I'd like to know because I'm in a really tough situation."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Stan said, lying. He almost couldn't keep himself from smiling he was so overjoyed to hear he had struck gold...A young girl in trouble.

"My husband and I separated a year ago and he doesn't pay the bills. I'm basically a single mother."

Stan feigned an expression of pure disgust. "Wow, that really sucks."

"I love my daughter, Taylor, more than anything else in the world." Tears began to well up in her eyes. "I'd do anything to give her a better life than I've had."

Stan decided that there was no point in dragging it out and decided to strike. "You guessed my secret."

"What is it, I don't understand?" Marle asked, somewhat confused.

"I was willing to do anything to succeed. That's the difference. Will, resolve, whatever you want to call it." Stan curled his lips towards his teeth just slightly and nodded— they were partners now. "That's why I'm successful."

"Mr. Peters, I can type seventy words a minute, file, do bookkeeping."

"Well, that's fantastic. How much are you expecting to make from this impressive skill set," asked Stan with just a hint of condescension.

"I was hoping maybe for forty thousand dollars a year. But I understand if I have to start at a more entry-level salary and work my way up. I'll work a hundred hours a week if you want me to."

"You know what Marle? I like your attitude. I'll give you a shot and I'll start you off at eighty-five thousand dollars a year plus full medical for you and the kid."

"I don't know what to say?" She fidgeted in her chair really not understanding the slope she was sliding down.

Stan leaned forward. "Say that you'll be at my house tonight for drinks."

"Your house for drinks?" she asked like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack Truck.

"Yes, I'd like to have a few drinks with you before we have sex since we're going to be working together and all." Stan leaned back in his chair satisfied that the bomb he had just dropped landed right on target.

"So, you're one of those type of producers," Marle said with righteous indignation. "I should have known. I can't believe you think I look like that kind of girl."

Stan took out his gold Mont Blanc and wrote his address on a sheet of Peters Entertainment letterhead and slid it across the desk towards her.

"Here's my address. I'm hoping by tomorrow you look like the kind of girl that has a job that pays eighty-five thousand dollars a year."

"You would actually take advantage of a single mother?" Marle asked, still in shock.

"Yes, I would," Stan answered resolutely.

Her face tightened and turned red. "Could you be any scummier?""Of course, but let's start with this," Stan said as he stood up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills. He peeled off three and tossed them down onto the piece of letterhead he had written his address on. "Anyway, here's three hundred dollars—that ought to cover the baby-sitter. I'll see you tonight."

Marle glared at him for several seconds then picked up the letterhead, the three hundred dollars, and stormed out.

Stan continued his anniversary speech. "I'm so proud of you. I knew you had what it took to be one of us."

Marle's tone was sardonic. "Because you're the greatest guy ever."

"I know," Stan agreed, then grabbed her in his arms and gave her a hug and a kiss on the lips. As the crowd of employees began to cheer, he took the opportunity to slip her some tongue. There were more cheers and at that point even Marle didn't really mind; she had unfortunately fallen in love with her scummy boss.

As Stan made out with Marle in front of her co-workers, Iren took notice of the young girl standing next to him. The tag on the lapel of her brown BCBG jacket read "Intern".

"Isn't it great that they're able to work so closely together," Iren said to her with a smile.

"Mr. Peters is an amazing example for all of us to follow," she answered in pure awe.

Iren glanced down. "Has anyone ever told you that you have nice feet?"

"Wow, that's so kind of you to say. You see, I didn't have a father figure growing up, so I'm really insecure about my looks."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Tiffany," she said, extending her hand.

Stan let go of a dazed and confused Marle. "All right everyone, enough of this sentimental bullshit. Get back to work." He pointed at his well-dressed African American assistant Danny. "Except for you, we need to talk."

CHAPTER FIVE

The Plan

Stan walked down the hallway with his arm around Danny's shoulder. Stan's powerful build always made this type of up close and personal contact more intimidating. So, he did it as often as possible. If necessary, he'd squeeze someone's nuts to get his favorite answer, "Yes."

Danny was just three years Stan's junior but his wiry build and Versace suits made him look much younger. Danny had been working at Peters Entertainment for 15 years. He was Stan's go-to-guy.

"Are you still banging that girl in human resources over at the studio?" Stan asked quietly.

Danny's face lit up. "Boss, I fucked her so hard last night she had to crawl to the kitchen to make me breakfast this morning. FYI, she's head of the department now."

"That a boy." Stan gave Danny's shoulder a squeeze. "Listen, I'm guessing Brad Jones is going to be staffing up on assistants. I need you to call your friend and tell her we're going to be sending over the perfect candidate. She gets hired on the spot, you two are on my jet to Hawaii for the weekend."

"Consider it done, boss."

"Good. I knew I could count on you."

"Boss, I'm guessing that if this girl were hot, she'd be working here. How ugly is she? I mean, should I give my friend the heads up?"

"Danny boy, she is working here. And she's far from ugly." Stan looked over at the studious but smoking-hot Brianna as she sat and worked diligently. Danny nodded his head and smiled mischievously as he grasped that the boss was up to something.

"You want the studio to hire one of your own assistants?"

"Just for a minute." Stan gave him the Stan Peters wink and nod. "So go make that call. Oh, Danny—one more thing. Get all the hip-hop guys up here and tell them that we're cutting their fees in half. They're not going to be happy so make sure you blame it on the studio. The usual orders from the top bullshit."

"Boss, that's crazy!"

"Crazy?" Stan's arm dropped from around Danny's shoulder. "Am I having hearing trouble? Did you just say what I think you said?"

"Boss, I didn't mean you're crazy. I meant if we're going to blame it on the studio, it's crazy to only cut their fees in half. Let's cut 'em sixty percent and pocket the difference."

Stan grinned from ear to ear. "Good, very good. You keep thinking like that and you're going to go a long way in this town."

Danny smiled.

Stan turned to Brianna. "Brianna, sweetheart, are you working on anything important right now?"

She looked up innocently from her work. "Today is the deadline for the "Save The Children Grant". If I don't finish the paperwork, the whole Third World food relief program that we sponsor will go unfunded for the rest of the year."

Stan held up his index finger implying that he needed a moment and turned to Danny. "How's business been in the Third World markets?"

"It's all still on the barter system. We're lucky if we can get a chicken out of a family of four."

Stan was incredulous. "One chicken for four tickets to one of my movies?"

"Sorry boss. We do occasionally get a donkey for a season pass."

In the office next to Brianna sat Donald Baker, Peters Entertainment Director of Publicity.

He held the phone tightly; it was a very delicate conversation. "Listen, we love the _Times_. I just don't know if the boss has time to give you a quote on the Brad Jones promotion. All right, three words or less. Wait, I think I hear him out in the hallway. Hey boss, the _Times_ wants to know what you think of Brad Jones." Donald held up the phone anticipating a pithy response.

Stan stood in the hallway fuming at the news Danny had just delivered. "A fucking jackass!" Stan shouted. Then, calming himself, he looked Danny in the face, put his hand on his shoulder, and in a very subdued quiet tone said, "For a season pass, that's totally unacceptable."

Donald pulled the phone back down to his ear instantly. "No, he did not just call the new head of the studio a fucking jackass. He said that he is fucking world-class...I don't give a shit if you did get it on tape...Hey don't you fucking hang up on me." Donald slammed down the phone. "Fuck!"

Stan turned back to Brianna. "Sweetheart, I need you in my office right now— something really important has changed the agenda."

Brianna got right up and walked down the hallway leaving Danny and Stan speechless for a moment as they stared at her perfect posterior.

"Speaking of something coming up." Danny looked down at the bulge in his pants.

Stan looked down at his identical bulge. "I know what you mean. But for now the only hard work Brianna's going to be doing is at the studio."

"That's a damn shame," Danny said, shaking his head.

They remained transfixed on Brianna's butt until she got to Stan's office door. At which point she turned around.

"Are you coming boss?"

Stan whispered out of the side of his mouth to Danny. "Hopefully." Then, he shouted, "In a couple of minutes."

Stan turned back to Danny. "Better make her interview for the afternoon."

Danny licked his lips. "You know you're my hero?"

"I know." Stan winked at Danny and they banged fists together before Stan turned and walked down the hallway to his office.

Iren sat comfortably in his corner office, down the hall from Stan's. As he massaged, Tiffany's (the new intern) feet, he spoke passionately toward the speakerphone.

"Listen to me, I'm telling you he's going to win an Academy Award for this part."

"I thought you said it's a comedy. Nobody wins an Oscar for a comedy," replied the very skeptical agent.

"Roberto Bernini in "A Beautiful Life" you shmuck." Iren winked at the young intern. She smiled, impressed by his mastery of Hollywood history.

"He was a comedian playing a guy who gets thrown into a concentration camp."

"Tom, playing a Jew, same thing. Listen to me Jimmy; Stan wrote this movie for Tom. We've wanted him from day one and I'm not hanging up until you say yes."

"Twenty million and I'll make it happen," Jimmy said with arrogant disinterest—the normal tone of any successful agent.

"Twenty million, that's it?" Iren scoffed. "Why don't you make it thirty million? I'll have to pay Russell and Nicole the same and then we'll be making the most expensive comedy in history. Are you out of your mind? Fifteen million. We're not paying a dollar more."

"Nicole who?" asked Jimmy.

"Nicole none of your fucking business who, until after we sign a contract." Iren's round face reddened.

"Hold on a second, I have another call," said Jimmy, making the obligatory point that successful agents are too busy to give anyone their undivided attention for more than five minutes.

"Don't you put me on hold you little bastard," Iren shouted to no avail. "He put me on hold, I'm going to kick his ass," he assured the intern—anger causing him to grip her feet more firmly—which turned her on. "Would you mind if I just kiss your toes a little."

"Not at all sir," she replied, very excited by the fat little angry man.

"You don't have to call me sir. You're special. Call me Bubba.

The intern giggled. "I thought your name was Iren. Why do you want me to call you Bubba?"

"Because Bubba has a little surprise for you later."

Jimmy's voice was back. "It's mom. She wants to know what time you're going to be home for dinner."

"Tell her I'm not coming home because my little prick of a son, the hotshot fucking agent, just gave me a fucking heart attack."

"All right, fifteen million. Send over the paperwork. Just make sure your name's not on it. What time should I tell mom you'll be home for dinner?"

The intern slipped her right foot up Iren's thigh.

"Late," Iren gasped. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the beautiful and apparently mischievous young girl. "Oh that feels good on my balls."

"What feels good on your balls?" asked Jimmy.

"Late, I have a lot of calls. I said I have a lot of calls." Iren was suddenly very warm and finding it difficult to concentrate.

"I could swear you said..."

"Oh my nuts!"

"I'm not nuts I heard you say..."

"What do you mean your gay?" Iren asked, realizing it was imperative that he deploy a misdirection.

"I said say, not gay," clarified a confused Jimmy.

"Son, I love you no matter what. But if you want to talk about it, let's talk after dinner." Iren hit the speakerphone's off button and let go of the intern's left foot. "Two feet are better than one," he said in his most suggestive tone.

"Yes sir," she responded, as her left foot joined her right.

Ray sat irritably in his corner office, which was down the hallway from Iren's. "I know he's her ex-husband. But think of it this way—this is a chance for reconciliation.

"Ray, what are you talking about? She's been sleeping with a shvartza. He's not taking her back."

"David, boychic, listen to me. She needs to do this movie if she has any hope of putting their marriage back together."

"Ray, he's married to someone else. They've had a child together."

"It's not his. The whole thing was a publicity stunt!"

"Ray, did he say something to you? Don't bullshit me. If he said something, I need to know.

"David, do you think for one fucking second that I would tell you what Tom told me."

"So he did tell you something?" David, being an agent, sensed that Tom must have said something.

"Look, he told me some things but I can't repeat them." Ray, being a producer, knew that David thought he was smarter than himself...so he had him. "All I can do is tell you that everybody wants Nicole in this movie."

"Everybody including Tom?" David asked point blank, because he was after all, The Man.

"Don't put fucking words in my mouth. Did I say the word including. No! I simply said everybody."

Ray's attractive secretary walked in, causing him to look up from the phone. She stood in front of his desk dressed in a smart navy blue business suit. "Your ex-wife is on the other line. She wants to know where her alimony check is."

"David, hold on a second." Ray pressed the hold button on the phone and looked up at his secretary who continued to peer disapprovingly down at him through her sexy reading glasses. "Tell her it's in Vegas." He waited a moment for her to leave then pressed the hold button again. "Okay, I'm back. Are you interested or not? Because if you're not, I have to give Renee's people a yes or a no."

"You're talking to Renee's people?" David asked with a trace of panic in his voice.

"No, we're done talking. I just need to tell them who we're going with. You know if I wasn't such a hopeless fucking romantic, I'd have this all wrapped up by now."

"I can't believe you're putting me on the spot like this." David's voice quivered slightly.

"Hey, maybe Renee and Tom will hit it off on the set. I bet Nicole will be real happy with you when she reads that in the tabloids." Ray smiled, but then frowned at the sight of his secretary standing back in his office.

"Your ex-wife wants to know where you left her check in Vegas."

"David, hold on another second." Ray pressed the hold button on the phone. "Tell her I left her fucking alimony check on the craps table at Caesars Palace."

Ray's secretary didn't move. "She's being a real bitch to me. Do you mind telling her yourself?"

"Do I mind telling her myself?" Ray repeated in disbelief. "Then what the fuck do I need you for? And why the fuck don't you use the intercom? Its the little red button on the lower left hand corner of your phone."

"You never answer the intercom," she responded calmly.

"You know what, you're more aggravating than my fucking ex-wife. Who did you fuck to get this job anyway?"

She rested her hands on her hips, trying to steady them. "I have a master's in communications from Stanford."

"And you work for a guy who doesn't even have a fucking GED, no wonder you're such an unhappy bitch. I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but I bet you sit out there all day thinking about how unfair life is. You want to be an actor, don't you? Don't bullshit me, it's the only reason anybody that looks like you, with your education, would put up with an asshole like me. C'mon, come clean you'll feel better." He motioned for her to sit down in the chair in front of his desk.

"I do want to be an actor," she said shamefully as she sat in the chair. "I take classes every night. I minored in drama but I could never tell my parents. I mean, it just sounds so flaky, but I know I have what it takes. I don't want to just be like everybody else. I want to make a lasting contribution to the world."

Ray put his hands together signaling time-out and picked up the phone. "David, something important has come up. I've got to go. Nicole does this for SAG minimum or I'm going with Renee."

"SAG minimum? She gets twenty million a picture. You've lost your fucking mind."

"Does she want to get her husband back from that little skank he married, yes or no?"

"Yes," David said with some resignation.

"Did she sleep with a black guy?"

"Half black and a very talented musician," David offered as a defense.

"Half black? And if your daughter comes home and says she's half pregnant from a half black guy..."

"All right she'll do it for minimum," David said, caving in at the very thought of his daughter coming home and giving him such great news.

"Good, we'll send over a fucking contract." Ray hung up the phone and shook his fist out in front of him. "That's the way to fuck 'em!" He pointed at his secretary. "Now you listen to me. A million fucking girls like you come to LA every fucking day. They were all the fucking pork queen, cow queen, homecoming queen, soon to be working at Dairy Queen type; big fish in little pond, Shit Lick Indiana. You get what I'm saying. Now I have no fucking idea why one makes it and another one doesn't, but let me give you some good advice."

Her face became hopeful. "Please, I really need some guidance. I feel lost." Her bitchy attitude had subsided completely.

"You should be fucking the boss. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to bang you myself but that's not going to get you anywhere. If I were you, I'd be fucking the guy who could give me everything."

"I couldn't do that." She hung her head dejectedly. "I mean I'm not like all the rest of the girls in this town."

Ray put on his wire rim glasses, which made him look like a police detective straight out of a primetime drama. He tilted his head forward and looked down his large, thick, Italian nose at her. "Let me ask you something. Are you saving yourself for marriage?"

"No. I've had lots of boyfriends," she answered, still looking glum.

Ray nodded. It was just the scenario he had imagined. "What did they do for you? You're working for a guy who can't spell. Do you see where I'm going? You're fucking lowlifes and bad boys; it doesn't make sense. Fuck someone who can do something for you. Didn't they teach you anything in school?"

A look of distress crossed Ray's secretary's face. "Your ex, she's still on hold."

Ray smiled. It didn't happen often but he had a soft spot for the stupid girl. "Watch and learn," he said, pressing the speakerphone button. "Don't you have anything better to do than stay on hold for twenty fucking minutes?"

"You mean like pay my bills with the money you haven't sent me?" responded the insolent voice of his ex-wife.

"How long were we married?" asked Ray.

"Ten years. But it must be hard for you to remember since you were never here.

"Did you work during those ten years?" Ray asked patiently.

"I volunteered," the voice sneered back.

"The answer is no," Ray said, taking his glasses back off for no reason other than putting them on and then taking them off made him feel smarter. "I paid all the fucking bills. We've been divorced for ten years and every month I have to send you a check for fifteen grand so you can run around and fuck whoever you want. That means to date you've made one point eight million dollars for being married to me and letting me pay all the bills for ten years. Throw in the house and the car and you're up three million easy. That's almost thirty thousand a month for every month we were married."

"What's your point, Ray?" The voice extended his name so it sounded like, "Raaaay".

He let out a chuckle. "My point is that you're a lot smarter than I am." He smashed his index finger down on the speakerphone button ending the call. Ray looked across the desk at his seemingly amused secretary. "Thirty thousand a month and counting. Don't be stupid—sleep with the boss."

CHAPTER SIX

A Romantic Proposal

Stan looked down the length of Brianna's naked body as they lay on the black crocodile sectional sofa at the far end of his three thousand square foot corner office. He considered her body to be in the top one hundred he had ever made love to.

Brianna put her left arm around his waist and looked up into his fierce, driven, green eyes. "Stan, I think I'm in love with you."

"Brianna, I think I'm in love with your ass," he replied sincerely.

Her left hand slapped the side of his bare gluteus maximus. "C'mon be serious. I'm really head over heels in love with you!"

"I am being serious." He began kissing the golden brown skin of her neck, just below her ear. "I'm really head over heels in love with your ass."

"Stan," she pulled her neck back just slightly so he'd have to listen. "You're forty-years-old, don't you think it's time for you to settle down and get married?"

"Who the fuck would marry me?" Stan had used this line many times and it usually worked.

"I would," answered Brianna, touched that the man she was in love with was willing to show self-doubt and weakness in her presence.

He shook his head...it wasn't the response he had hoped for. "Brianna, before we take our relationship to that level, I need you to go to work for Brad Jones over at the studio."

"What's that have to do with us getting married?"

"I need you to seduce him so we can get him on video tape engaging in a highly compromising sexual act. Something really bad so I can blackmail him into giving us cart-blanche on "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho"."

Brianna's face contorted in horror. "That's the most revolting thing I've ever heard!" she said, almost choking on her own words.

"That's because you haven't heard what I just heard!" Marilyn Sue's distinctly big African American, angry voice shouted from mid-office. She was a very sizable woman and she was headed right for them.

Stan could only watch, stupefied, as Marilyn Sue Berry thundered his direction. "Marilyn sweetheart, I love you. But I was just fucking my secretary..."

"Nicole Kidman!" she shouted and glared at Stan. "I'm not working with that skinny little white bitch. I'm the black Kathy Bates, baby. You promised me the blonde psycho would be some unknown bimbo. I'm supposed to be the female star of this movie."

"Marilyn, it's not me, it's the studio. If Brianna would just do what I need her to do, everything would be back on track."

Marilyn turned her full attention to Brianna. "Well what are you waiting for child? You're messing up my game!"

"He wants me to sleep with another man so he can blackmail him into doing whatever he wants," Brianna said tearfully, woman to woman.

Marilyn rested her hands on her extra-wide hips and her head seemed to move independently of the rest of her body. "Now I've heard it all! Just when you think someone in Hollywood can't stoop any lower, you come up with a brilliant idea like this! She's perfect, he'll never be able to resist banging his top grossing producer's girlfriend!"

Brianna's tearful expression turned to pure shock. "I can't believe you're on his side. I mean, as a woman, I would have thought..."

Marilyn held up her hand signaling her to stop or continue at her own peril. "Baby, wake up and smell the coffee. Did all that dick you just got give you a brain concussion? If you want to land a man like Stan Peters, you have to sink to his level. Hell, I'd sleep with Brad Jones if I thought it would do any good."

"You would?" Brianna asked, wide-eyed. "It just seems so wrong."

Marilyn modified her voice to its most soothing intonation. "Sweetie, you're half my age and I'm guessing you've already had more cocks in the hen house than Foster Farms. Seriously girl, tell me you haven't had more bones in your mouth than a Saint Bernard? You know you have. And don't even get me started on that hot little ass of yours, because it had more visitors last year than Disneyland."

"All right, I'll do it." Brianna said, looking deeply into Stan's eyes with determination. "But you have to promise to marry me if I do. And I have a witness."

"I do!" Stan smiled. "I mean I will, if you do."

Marilyn stared down at them with a look that was not patience. "Good. Now swing into action and let's get this movie back on track."

"Trust me big girl," Stan assured. "Things are going to work out just fine."

"You know I only trust you because you grew up in an orphanage in Africa." Marilyn's face softened for a moment at the thought. Then, it resumed its diva form. "Otherwise I'd have my lawyers all over your white devil ass. Alright I've got to go." She turned and walked out.

Brianna and Stan were quiet for a moment. The calm was shattered by Marle's voice coming from the intercom. "Stan, I've got your mom and dad on the phone."

Brianna glared at him. "An orphanage in Africa? You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Voicemail, Marle!" Stan shouted then pulled Brianna close to his body for one more round of intercourse...before she started sleeping with Brad.

"Have you always been like this?" asked Brianna wondering how she fell in love with such a monster.

"Yes," Stan answered, determined to avoid conversation and resume sex. It was just another lie. There had been a time when he loved and trusted.

Tracy, one of the most attractive girls attending UCLA, was a sorority girl with long brown hair, high cheekbones, and perfect skin. She was a rare beauty that made heads turn, including Stan's, the summer just prior to his sophomore year.

After ten months of dating bliss, it was clear to both of them that their relationship was headed for marriage. Stan found it hard to be away from her, even if only for a few hours. To think that she was going to be gone for a whole weekend visiting Irv and Martha was almost unbearable.

He put the suitcase into the trunk of her car and she fell into his arms for one last tender hug before her drive to San Diego. "I'm going to miss you. I miss you already," Stan said, staring deeply into her lovely eyes.

She kissed him softly on the lips. "I'm going to miss you too. But Irv and Martha are getting so old I really need to spend more time with them. They're like second parents to me."

Stan kissed her on the cheek. "I know. You better get going before traffic gets bad." He hugged her again and whispered in her ear, "Drive safe."

Stan stood in the alley and watched her car disappear from view. He had never felt so good. During the course of his young life, he had only known success. Success in sports, success in academics, and success at work. Yet, he had always felt lonely and unfulfilled. Tracy was the final piece of the puzzle—she had completed him; the loneliness was gone.

"I'm coming," Stan shouted at the ringing phone as he ran up the stairwell to his apartment, a nice place by college student standards.

"Hello," Stan said, trying to catch his breath.

"Hey, what's your plan for the weekend?" The voice belonged to Stan's childhood friend, Andy."

"I don't have one. Tracy just left for San Diego, I'm on my own."

"What's she doing down there?"

"She's close with a little old couple that live in La Jolla. They're actually friends of her parents but she likes to spend time with them. The old guy is a great photographer—kind of like Ansel Adams. He takes her around and shows her how to get shots. You know I don't much about photography. But I think she may actually have some talent. What are you up to?"

"I was supposed to go to Las Vegas with Larry but he just called to tell me he can't make it. The room's on my dad's tab if you want to keep me company."

"When were you thinking of heading out?"

"Now! So start packing."

"I'll throw some stuff in a bag. Be here in twenty."

"Get ready to have some fun," Andy said, excited to have found a last minute replacement.

Stan hung up the phone and smiled.

Vegas is a good way to keep your mind off of Tracy. Boy are you in love.

The car traveled north on I-15 unimpeded by traffic. Stan enjoyed catching up with Andy but spent most of the ride staring out of the window at the desert scenery—thinking about Tracy.

Because Andy's dad was a high roller, he was able to finagle a spectacular two-bedroom suite. Stan gave himself the tour—glass of champagne already in hand. "Nice digs. I could get used to this!" he shouted from his bedroom.

Andy walked through the door, smoking a cigar. "I think I'm going to take a shower before heading out."

Stan looked down at the Jacuzzi tub in the middle of his bedroom. "I'm going to take a bath."

"Should I line up some hookers for later?" Andy took a long drag on his stogie and then proceeded to blow rings.

"Sorry, big guy. Those days are over for me. I've become an honest man."

"I envy you buddy." Andy raised the cigar back to his lips and took another puff. "I'd give up hookers too if I had a girl like Tracy. Getting a good Catholic girl from a small town instead of a spoiled Jewish Princes—smart move."

Stan shrugged. "I just got lucky."

An hour later, Stan stood at the craps table dressed in his Vegas suit. He picked up the dice and tossed them down the green cloth.

"Winner! Six is a winner!" shouted the man standing mid-table.

"Hey, kid you gonna keep rolling the bones good all night?"

Stan looked at the Italian gentleman—obviously a New Yorker—that stood to his left. "Just keep betting. I'm the luckiest guy on the planet."

"I've been coming here once a month since before you were born. Never left a winner one time."

"Now I know how they paid for this giant hotel." Stan picked up the dice and threw them back down the table.

"Six is the point! Place your bets!"

"So this is a lock. You're not gonna throw a seven on me?"

"The only place I throw a seven, my friend, is out of bed for eating crackers." Stan's brow lifted. "And that's because it makes a mess of the bag—over her head."

The Italian laughed. "You're okay. I like you! What's your name?"

"Stan. And you are?"

"My name's Ray, Ray Delcrotch. Listen, you like this six?"

"Yeah, I'm good for it. Place the eight also. I feel some eights coming."

Ray threw his money down on the table.

"Eight!"

Stan turned toward Ray. "I told you. Press it."

"Eight!"

Ray looked at the pile of chips on his eight. "Another one?"

Stan nodded. "Press it."

"Eight!"

"You're unfucking believable!" Ray said, realizing that there were powerful forces at work.

"Six! Winner six! Pay the line!"

"I told you." Stan smiled, it was a million dollar smile that caused Ray to blink.

"You're a pretty confident kid."

"When you're as good at everything as I am Ray, it's hard not to be." Stan threw the dice.

"Six! The point is six!"

"This is unfucking believable. What are you a pro?"

"College student. What about you? How can you afford to come here and take a beating every month?"

"Movie producer. But I suck. Got a goyishke kup. I'll never make it big."

Stan laughed, and threw the dice. "Get a Jew partner."

"Got one. I'm so unlucky, I got the only Jew in Hollywood that can't make a good movie."

"Winner six!"

People at the table started throwing chips Stan's way. Tips, he was used to them.

"Hey fuckface, don't tell me you're actually winning?"

Stan looked at the short, plump, Jew. "Your partner?" he asked Ray.

"I can pick 'em."

The Jew extended his hand to Stan. "I'm Iren."

Stan looked down at Iren's hand but didn't take it. "They'll think you're slipping me dice. Nice to meet you, I'm Stan."

He threw the dice.

"Four! The point is four!"

"Four?" asked Ray, worried.

"What? You think I can only roll six and eight. Place six and eight and I'll get to four."

"Six!"

"Six!"

"Eight!"

"Four! Winner four!"

"Hey shmucklips, can you roll like this all night long?" asked Iren, pulling a handful of chips out of his pocket.

"Until I get tired. I have about forty minutes left in me. Throw down some money."

Ray gave Stan a pat on the back. "You're a nice kid. We've got a comped table at the hotel's new nightclub tonight. Why don't you join us?"

"I'm here with a buddy."

"Bring him along." Ray nodded toward the table. "Now keep throwing those fucking dice."

The music at Club Glow pounded through the air into the bodies of its patrons. Lights flashed while girls dressed in black chaps and braziers danced on platforms. The crowd cheered the DJ as he raised aerosol fog canisters and blasted the room with a spine shattering sound—remarkably enough to the beat of the music.

Ray leaned toward Stan, who sat dead center of the booth. "They spent millions on this place. What do you think?"

"Really nice. There must be two thousand people here."

"Three thousand!" Iren shouted over the music. "Can you believe some of these chicks?"

"I've never seen so many hotties in one place!" shouted Andy.

Ray looked from Andy to Stan. "Why don't you guys bring a couple over to the table?"

"Go get 'em boy," Stan shouted across to Andy.

"What about you?" asked Ray.

"He's taken!" Andy shouted, answering for Stan.

Ray leaned closer. "You don't fuck around?"

"No," Stan said, shaking his head. "No fucking around for me."

"She must be hot." Ray grinned, happy to have discerned this information.

"She is... And nice also—a really good girl."

"Well, you're in Vegas—she'd never know."

"'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,' my friend." Stan winked. "You've heard that one before?"

Ray nodded. "You're a better man than me." He pointed at Iren. "And a way better man than him. What's this girl look like, that she can keep a good looking guy with money like you behaving on the straight and narrow?"

Stan's creative mind went to work trying to paint a picture that he could articulate. "Medium height, long brown hair, great cheekbones, and some really cute freckles around her nose. She kind of looks like..." Stan looked around the dark room until he found a suitable match on the dance floor, "like her," he said pointing.

"I can't tell what she looks like." Ray squinted trying his best to get a good look.

"Well wait 'til she stops making out with that guy." They were all over each other. "You know he's gonna be fucking her tonight," Stan commented, missing Tracy just at the thought.

"Do these two ever come up for air?" Ray asked, frustrated and getting horny at the near pornographic, dance-floor-make-out-session.

"I'm beginning to wonder!" Iren stared on.

"Finally," Stan said with relief.

"Wow, she is hot," Ray said, clearly understanding what Stan meant.

Stan nodded. "They could be twins." And then it felt like his heart had dropped to his stomach. It was difficult to breathe and his face was on fire.

"Oh shit!" Andy said, doing a double-take from Stan to the dance floor.

"What?" asked a completely baffled Ray.

Stan pointed at the dance floor. "The girl that looks like my girlfriend, who's practically fucking that guy she's dancing with—is my girlfriend."

Ray put his arm around Stan. "I know what you're thinking right now—don't do it."

Stan looked on as his girlfriend, the girl he planned on marrying and having children with, grabbed another man's crotch as he stuck his tongue in her mouth. "What do you suggest?"

"Let's blow out of here to another club, grab some chicks, and fuck 'em."

Stan looked away from the dance floor back to his friends. "I think I'm going to be sick. I actually feel like throwing up."

Ray put his hand behind Stan's neck and gave it a squeeze. "Forget about it. No cunt's worth it. I've got twenty years on you, so listen to what I'm telling you. They're all the same. You're going to fuck someone else tonight and forget about her."

"I'm the perfect boyfriend. Why would she do this to me?"

Ray's hand squeezed tighter. "Because she doesn't give a shit about you. She just cares about herself. You think a woman wants the perfect boyfriend—the perfect husband? Maybe someone with character?" He laughed, "They want money and dick! And that's still not enough. They're only happy when they have something to be unhappy about."

Stan glared back at the dance floor. She was having the time of her life. "Well, from now on I'm going to give them what they want."

Iren picked up the bottle from the middle of the table and poured four shots. "You know, a good looking young guy like you in our business could fuck three girls a day."

Stan downed the shot Iren had placed in front of him. "Are we talking in the most demeaning way?"

Iren's face tightened, causing his lips to pull back into an unrestrained smile. The type of smile usually exhibited before hysterics. "Are you kidding? In our business, you'd break hearts, ruin lives—you'd love it!"

Stan looked to the dance floor one last time, then back at Ray and Iren. "I can come up with a lot of money—but you two work for me."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Beware Of Black Dildos

Iren reclined in the chair behind his desk. In his left hand, he held the phone to his ear. In his right hand, he held a large black dildo that he had bought at the Hustler Store on Sunset the night before.

"Listen to me fuckface!" he yelled, waiving the dildo around angrily in the direction of the phone. "Tom Cruise was begging to do this movie for free. I had to force him to take five million dollars. So tell Russell he should be kissing my ass to do this for ten million."

"I don't believe you," the taunting, arrogant, uptight voice on the other end of the phone hissed. "Tom would never work for five million dollars."

"I tell you what, if I'm lying we'll pay Russell twenty million. But if I'm not, he gets the same as Tom."

"You're bluffing," said the voice.

Iren pointed the fake, giant, black cock at the phone. "Only one way to find out. Come on putz, put your money, or should I say Russell's money, where your mouth is."

"I'm calling your bluff," the voice said knowing it wasn't his money anyway.

"Call Tom's agent, Jimmy Smith. Then call me back and kiss my ass." Iren hung up the phone and started dialing. "Jimmy you still there?"

"Of course I'm still here, I answered the phone."

"Listen smartass, he's going to call you right now. Don't fuck me up. Tell him we're paying Tom five and that you're very excited. And son, on a side note, don't ever tell anyone that Smith isn't your real name." Iren hung up the phone and hit the intercom button. "Stan I need you down here to close this one. I think I've got Russell on the hook for five million."

"I'll be right there," Stan replied, always excited to do a close.

The break room, like everything at Peters Entertainment, was the best in the world. The girls all stood around Brianna, captivated by her account of the recent event.

"It was so special, we were in the office fooling around. I mean it doesn't sound that romantic, but it was. I mean it was like a scene from "Gone With the Wind"."

"What do you mean fooling around?" asked Tiffany, the intern with the nice feet and brown BCBG jacket. "C'mon, it's just us girls, you can talk." She looked around to make sure.

Brianna concluded that there was no point standing on pretense. "We're on the couch and he's fucking me with that giant cock of his, like the dog that I am, until we both cum like it's an eight-point fucking-0 earthquake. And then, I do not shit you, he asks me to marry him. My pussy's so hot—the iceman finally melted."

One after the other her co-workers started to hug and congratulate her. The break room was filled with a cacophony of girl talk and happiness. "Oh that's so great, I'm so happy for you," said Tiffany.

"I don't even know you and I feel like crying," said another attractive secretary.

Brianna came face to face with Marle. "It couldn't happen to a nicer person," Marle said in her phoniest voice.

"I'm jealous. You're the luckiest girl in the world," said a secretary, a former playmate of the month, as she wiped away tears of joy.

"Thanks you guys," Brianna wiped away a tear of her own. "I'm so lucky to have friends like you." She looked at her watch. "Oh shoot, I'm late, I have to get to the studio."

"What do you have to do at the studio?" asked Tiffany.

Brianna tensed slightly. "Oh, just some undercover work. You know, from the top." Not wanting to risk being pressed for more information she headed straight for the door.

Tiffany turned to the rest of the girls. "She means some under the covers work. Fucking tramp."

The receptionist imitated Brianna perfectly. "You know, from the top." She dropped the imitation. "She means someone on top. Fucking gold digging bitch."

Marle crossed her arms in front of her body and looked at her co-workers. "Oh come on you guys, cut the shit. We've all slept with him; no reason for hating."

"I haven't," said Ray's over-qualified secretary, to Marle.

"You're kidding," Marle's lips moved back and forth twisting into a skeptical pucker. It took a lot to shock the girls in the break room but this revelation was something, even by Peters Entertainment standards. "It's not possible," Marle exclaimed.

"When I came in, they assigned me right to Ray," Ray's secretary responded, wondering why they were all looking at her like she was a leper.

Laughter began to escape from the various secretaries, assistants, receptionists, and interns.

"You poor thing," said the front desk receptionist. She put her hand on the unmolested woman's shoulder to show that she understood that working for Ray was far worse than having to sleep with Stan. "I'm sorry. I really am." Then she turned and walked out of the break room followed by the other girls. Some were still giggling at their co-worker's misfortune.

Ray's secretary stood alone in the room. "I'm beautiful, smart, and talented," she said aloud to herself. "Doesn't that count for anything in this town?"

The air in Iren's office was abuzz with excitement. An exhilarated Stan stood in front of the desk while Iren sat in his chair behind the desk, the large black dildo in hand.

"One, two, three," he counted, then pointed the dildo at the phone.

"I have Ron Embry on the phone. He claims to be Russell Crowe's agent," said Tiffany over the intercom.

"Claims to be?" Iren smiled and gave Stan a satisfied nod.

"Cynical, suspicious, and nice feet." Stan looked at Iren curiously. "Why haven't you recommended her for our executive training program."

Iren held the big black fake cock in the air as if it were an exhibit in the trial of the century. "I have bigger plans for her future." He then used the fifteen inches of latex pleasure to push the intercom button of his phone.

"Put him through." He paused and counted silently, one, two, three... " Ron are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here." Ron's voice was dry.

"Listen Ron, Stan's here with me."

Ron's response was instantaneous. "Hey Stan, your guy is ripping me a new asshole. I don't know how you got Tom for five million, but you have to do better for Russell."

"We had a deal!" Iren shouted, trying not to laugh.

Ron pleaded to the boss for mercy; it was an age-old strategy. "Stan, can you help me out?"

Stan never tired of this moment. "I wish I could Ron, but actually the news gets worse. I don't know where Iren got Russell Crowe from. I told him to get me Curtis Blow."

"The rapper from the eighties!" Ron was incredulous. "I thought the part we're talking about is one of the Jews?"

"Yeah, it's a comedy. I was thinking we'd bring Curtis back, kind of like a Sammy Davis Jr. kind of character. Or maybe a Jewish George Jefferson. I'm really sorry about the mix-up. Anyway, I have to get going. Tell Russell I'm sorry things didn't work out."

"Stan. C'mon I'm offering you Russell Crowe and you're telling me you're going with Curtis Blow? This isn't really happening?"

Stan held his hands to his stomach, wanting to double over and laugh. "Tom Cruise and a black guy playing two Jews is hilarious," he managed to say with considerable enthusiasm.

"It's just..." Ron began.

"Hey, slow down there Buckwheat!" Stan wanted to piss in his pants he was having so much fun...it was time to play the hardass. "I know you're not questioning me. You little shit, I made my bones in this business when your mother was still wiping your ass. I'm a fucking legend in this town. I have more creative juice in my left nut than you have in your whole body!"

"Stan, I'm not questioning you." Ron's voice had a tremble in it. "I would never do that. I'm just saying that we really want to be a part of your team. It's fate that Iren accidentally called. I see it now."

Stan gave Iren a high five. "What about, 'Five million can't you do better for me?' What was that whiney bullshit about?" Stan asked, imitating Ron's voice perfectly.

"I apologize," Ron said, eating a hot, steaming, mound of shit.

Stan was far from done. "Don't apologize, do something! Show me you really want to be part of this team."

"What do you want?" Ron was a broken man. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to put some skin into the fucking game, Ron!" Stan shouted like a football coach.

"But I'm straight." Ron begged, appalled and sickened but willing if need be.

"Not your asshole, asshole. Money!" Stan continued to shout. "You want me to get rid of a perfectly good black rapper and put Russell in this movie, I need some financial fucking incentive!"

"Four million," Ron offered meekly.

Stan flashed an evil look at Iren. "Two point five or it's a rap, no pun intended. Dare to say yes baby and you're on the fucking team!" Stan knew he had him, so he cupped his hand to his ear and awaited the response.

"Yes." Ron's voice said almost a whisper.

"Let me hear it again!" Stan yelled.

"Yes!" Ron shouted on command.

"I'll send a contract right over," Iren said exuberantly. Then leaning forward, he extended his arm with great care and hit the speakerphone off button with his trusty dildo.

Ron looked around his office. It felt small all of a sudden. He noticed his hands were shaking as he opened the top middle drawer of his desk. He pulled out a mirror and a brown vile of cocaine, which he shook out onto the mirror. He used a letter opener to make two long lines, which he immediately snorted. He shook his head and then looked at the silent phone. "What the fuck just happened? What did I just do?"

The mood in Iren's office was jovial. "You really are the best ever. How'd you pull Curtis Blow out of your ass?" Iren asked in pure amazement.

Stan pointed at the black dildo in Iren's hands.

"A big, fake, black cock and you come up with Curtis Blow. You should consider running for president. I think you'd win."

Stan sat sideways on Iren's desk so that his right foot was still touching the floor. "No time for politics right now. We've got the new cast in place. I've got Brianna working on Brad and Danny working on the rappers. Now, what I've got to do is prepare for our new investors meeting while you and Ray make up some kind of bullshit, G-rated version of the script."

"How much do you think you can get out of the new investment group?" Iren asked, sensing they might be back on a roll.

Stan thought for a moment. "Well, unfortunately they speak English. So, I'll ask for a billion. But with any luck we'll probably wind up with a billion five."

"That's it!" exclaimed Iren, his bubble popped. "It's a lucky thing we don't really need money; it's getting hard to come by." Then, inspired again. "Don't the Chinks have a lot of money these days? Maybe we should start shooting in China."

A look of distaste crossed Stan's face. "I'm really not attracted to Asian women. Besides, you fuck one and an hour later you feel like fucking again."

Iren's devious little mind was hard at work. "You're right. We better stay here. But I'm telling you there's more money out there somewhere."

They looked up to see Ray standing in the doorway.

"The Arabs still have plenty of money," he suggested. "That's who we should be going after."

Stan winced. "Arabs? They're a bunch of terrorists."

"C'mon, they're not all bad," Ray said in defense of a billion people.

"They cut people's heads off and think Allah is going to give them seventy virgins...although I have to admit I do wonder what Arab chicks look like under those Grim Reaper outfits. Maybe they're smarter than we give them credit for."

Iren looked at Stan like he was from another planet. "Smart? Name one modern day contribution that they've made to the world? If we didn't need their oil, they'd still be living in tents and riding camels. In fact, half of them still do. But seriously Stan, would you fuck a camel if no one was ever going to find out about it?"

"You're dad did—now look what I have to deal with." Stan looked at Iren with smug satisfaction.

There was a moment of silence.

Ray decided to give it one last try. "Listen, just because they didn't invent electricity or cure Polio doesn't mean we can't take their money. I mean, what the fuck? It's really our money anyway. I give it to them every time I fill up my car."

Stan shook his head. "Have you no morals at all?"

Iren and Ray laughed.

Stan sighed. "Stupid question."

There was another moment of silence.

"How we doing on the whole Two Jew fiasco," Ray asked stepping into the office only to be distracted by the large black dildo in Iren's hand. "What the fuck is that?"

Iren looked at Ray stoically. "I found it."

Ray turned to Stan.

Stan smiled. "Things are coming along. With any luck the rest of the day should be a winner. Just a little..."

Tiffany's voice interrupted, "Mr. Peters, I have a guy who claims to be Danny on the phone."

Stan looked from Ray to Iren and nodded. "She's good."

"I can't wait to find out," said Iren, holding up the dildo.

Stan turned toward the phone. "Put him through."

"Boss, we have a problem," Danny's voice crackled with energy. "Really more like an emergency."

"Otherwise known as a big fucking problem," Ray clarified.

"Where are you?" asked Stan, not wanting to believe that the day could get more complicated.

"I'm waiting for you in your office." Danny's voice sounded unusually strained.

"I'll be right there." Stan looked from Iren to Ray. "You two work on the script. I'll go deal with whatever the fuck is going on now."

"That's why you get the big bucks," Ray shouted after Stan as he walked out of Iren's office.

Stan gave him the middle finger without bothering to turn around. "Thanks."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blood And Guts

Stan walked into his enormous office and stared down its length at the sight of Danny standing over, and apparently trying to console, a man sitting on Stan's black crocodile couch.

_I can't believe I actually paid $250,000.00 for a couch. Worth every penny though—look at it._ _I have to have one made in alligator just to say I have both._

"Danny, why is there a guy covered in blood and what looks like brain matter sitting on my couch, crying?" Stan asked calmly.

"Why did I do it? I loved her!" sobbed the man covered in blood and brain matter on Stan's black crocodile couch. "Why? Why? Why?"

Danny cleared his throat. "Boss, you remember Warren? He used to work in our mailroom a long time ago. He's been the head of distribution over at the studio for almost a year now."

Warren continued to sob.

Stan had thought he looked familiar. "Yeah, I remember now. Sorry Warren, the blood threw me. How's that hot little wife of yours?"

"Dead! She's fucking dead!" Warren screamed.

"That's terrible." Stan thought back warmly to the time he slept with her. "When did this happen?" he felt obligated to ask.

"About half an hour ago," Warren gasped between sobs.

"What?" Stan hadn't expected this.

"I killed her!" Warren felt compelled to confess. "I killed her!" More sobs followed.

Stan turned to Danny. "Well that explains the blood and the brain matter."

"What a shame," Danny offered morosely.

Warren pulled his hands from his face and looked up at Danny. "What a shame? I killed my wife! That's all you have to say?"

"No, I meant what a shame that you ruined that nice suit." Danny's appreciation for fine apparel was second only to his boss's.

"Armani?" Stan asked. Danny had read his mind.

Warren being no slouch himself, answered between sobs, " Zegna. Fuck, look at it. You're right—they'll never get this shit out."

"Did you get that at the Rodeo Drive store?" Stan was curious because he thought he had bought every suit the Rodeo store offered. Yet, he didn't have this particular suit, which he did, in fact, like very much.

"No, I actually picked it up at Barney's," Warren said calmly and then began to sob again for no reason Stan and Danny could understand until he continued, "The same day I met Sally."

"Sally, that's her name," Stan said as he snapped his fingers together.

"Yeah, she worked at Barney's. That's why I bought the fucking suit in the first place."

Danny looked down thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. "I don't get it."

"I was trying to impress the cheating bitch," Warren growled.

Stan decided to sit in the black crocodile chair opposite the couch. He was finding this interesting now. "Kind of weird that you wore that particular suit on the same day that you planned on killing her?"

Warren shook his head. "I didn't plan on killing her. I came home to take her to lunch. It was supposed to be a surprise—and she was upstairs in our bed fucking our gay decorator."

Stan tried not to laugh. "What made you think he was gay?"

"When Sally was out of town visiting her parents, Jackie, that's his name, and I went out to have some drinks. He asked me if he could suck my dick," Warren explained.

Danny sat down in the black crocodile chair opposite the couch next to Stan's. "Given the fact he was fucking your wife, he might have just been telling you that to throw you off the trail."

A cloud of despair hung over Warren. "No, I let him. He sucked a mean cock; he's definitely a fag."

"Was definitely a fag, past tense," Stan observed, raising his right eyebrow. Then continued, "Since I'm guessing you couldn't mess up a suit that bad by just killing your cheating bitch of a wife?"

Warren nodded his confirmation of Stan's astute observation. "After I blew Sally's face off, I stuck the twelve-gauge up his ass and got off four rounds before I came to my senses."

Stan glanced at his watch, a gold Piaget Polo. "Warren, I've liked you since your days in the mailroom. But I'm really on a tight schedule today. I mean, you really couldn't have picked a worse time to commit a double homicide."

"Stan, I didn't know where else to go. You have to help me," he pleaded.

For the first time Stan was puzzled. "Help you? What do you need help with? You have a great job, you got rid of your fag fucking bitch of a wife without having to pay alimony and you got what sounds like one hell of a blow job from what turned out to be your not as gay as you thought decorator. I mean, other than having to replace a hell of a nice suit, things don't seem to be going that badly for you."

"They're going to put me in prison for the rest of my life," Warren sounded profoundly dejected.

Danny waived his right index finger in the negative. "Warren we would never let them do that to you." Danny turned to Stan. "Would we?" he asked, not exactly sure.

"Of course not," Stan confirmed. "Who said anything about prison? You didn't tell anyone else about this, did you?"

Warren shook his head. "No. I killed them and called Danny straight away."

Stan clapped his hands together. "Good. Then this unfortunate incident should be pretty simple to straighten out and still leave me plenty of time to prepare for my new investor meeting. First things first. Warren, you have to go back to your house and wait for the cops."

"You want me to call the cops?" Warren questioned.

Stan tried to be patient. "Only if you want your next wife to be a big black man named Leroy. Of course I don't want you to call the cops—let us take care of that. I just want you to wait for them. Now, when they get there, the story is simple. You came in and found the crime scene just the way it is. You were so panicked, you came right to us and we called the cops."

"Who do I say killed them?" Warren asked, completely unable to think for himself anymore. Not because he had just committed a double homicide. But a year as a studio executive had taken its toll. "The husband is always the primary suspect."

Stan held up two fingers. "Two words...murder, suicide."

Danny pointed a finger and shook it at Stan. "Oh, that's good."

Warren nodded his approval. "I like it, keep going."

The whole scene unfolded in Stan's mind as he spoke. "Sally found out he was a switch hitter, stuck the shotgun up the fag's ass and let him have four rounds. Then, she blew her own face off."

Danny closed his eyes picturing the scene. "Yeah, I see it. But why did she kill herself? Why not just kill the queer?"

"Good question." Stan paused. "Because...she couldn't stand the thought of going to prison and being raped by women with coke bottles and broomsticks. No, she would have liked that... She killed him because she found out that he was not only gay—he was Republican. If I recall, she was a real Hollywood liberal bitch. Finding out that a gay Republican had fucked her and decorated the house was too much; it drove her over the edge."

Warren looked at Danny. "Brilliant, if this wasn't a real life tragedy, the studio would greenlight it in a second."

Danny pulled a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket and began writing down some potential budget numbers. "You know, if we change the names we might really be onto something here." His voice was enthusiastic as he continued to write the all- important numbers.

Stan couldn't believe their good fortune. He had been desirous of shooting a murder-mystery-thriller for some time. "Danny, make a note to put this in development, working title "Blood In The Bedroom"".

Warren could really see the vision now. "What about "Death and the Decorator"?" he suggested.

Danny thought about Warren's input for a moment. "I don't know if we want to give that away in the title."

Stan was beaming. "You know, I think this is a win, win for all of us. I can see the cast." He glanced at his Piaget. "Shit, I don't have time for this right now." He looked Warren straight in the face. "You're lucky you killed them both or I'd really have my work cut out here." Stan turned to Danny. "Have Warren follow you back to your house. Get him cleaned up and let him borrow a suit." He turned back to Warren. "Then you go back to your house and wait. You got it?"

"Got it," Warren responded, transformed into a man with a purpose.

Stan hit the speakerphone button on the phone that sat on the round sterling silver Buccellati table between Danny and himself. "Marle?"

"Yeah, what's up?" Her words were choked and her tone was even more ungracious than usual.

Stan frowned. "'Yeah, what's up?' That's the way you answer the phone now?"

"Do I fuck you whenever you want?" she inquired, clearly angry about something.

Stan sighed. It was just that kind of day. "I really can't get into this right now."

"Well then why did you bring it up?" she asked bitchily.

"I just think you could give better phone."

"Do you think I could give better head? Like the head I gave you in the car all the way down to Palm Springs last weekend!"

Stan had had enough, although it was a great hour and half-long blowjob that made the drive go much faster. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm _thrilled_ for you and Brianna!"

Stan looked at Danny. Danny shrugged. "Who?" asked Stan, really having no idea what Marle was talking about.

"Brianna, your other assistant—the one that you asked to marry you." Marle's voice trembled. She was obviously crying.

Stan looked at Danny and mouthed the words "Unfuckin believable." "Oh come on, I was lying to get her to do what I wanted. I mean, what are you, stupid?"

Marle's voice was defensive but overall sounded back to normal. "So what, you're getting mad at me and calling me names now? What are we, back in high school?"

"Marle you're really starting to piss me off!" Stan said, raising his voice.

"Well call me back when you're sane," she suggested and hung up the phone.

Danny stared at Stan for a few seconds. "Did she really give you head all the way down to Palm Springs?"

"Yeah." Stan smiled, recalling the pleasurable ride and several mini-vans filled with amused kids and horrified parents that they encountered along the way.

"You know what you call a girl who can suck a dick all the way from Los Angeles to Palm Springs?" asked Danny.

Stan laughed. "Marle!"

Danny and Warren laughed along.

"What, are you sane now?"

Stan looked to see Marle standing in his office. "No, I wasn't calling you; it was a joke."

"That's nice. So are you really not marrying Brianna?"

"Of course not. Listen, while you're here, get the name and number of that homicide detective who pitched us that terrible script. I think it was called...shit what was it called...

""Murder In Tinseltown". I could never forget that piece of shit," Danny said, filling in the blank.

"Well we haven't got much of a choice." Stan gave Danny a subtle look that Marle couldn't see that said, "We are trying to cover up a murder here." Stan looked back to Marle. "Call the detective and tell him that I just finally got around to reading it and I think it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Tell him that I have one opening on my slate that I have to fill right now so if he wants to see this thing get made, he has to be in my office within...lets say...the next hour."

No longer blind with jealousy, Marle noticed Warren for the first time. "Why is there a guy with blood all over his suit sitting on your couch?"

"He's part of the promotion for this new "Murder In Tinseltown" project," Stan answered, making it sound so obvious that he almost believed it himself.

"Got it," Marle said, not so sure. Then she turned around and walked out, happy that Stan was lying to Brianna about marrying her. She couldn't wait to get back to the break room and tell everybody.

Warren looked at Stan. "Do you think you can get this cop to believe my story?"

Stan held his hands out, palms up, and began balancing them like a scale. "Let's see—I'm a cop that wants to get my movie made. Who killed the fag and the cheating bitch wife?" His left hand went down an inch. "Movie made." His right hand went down a foot. "You'll be back at work tomorrow. Now, get out of here. I have some serious shit to take care of."

Ray and Iren were drinking lattes in the hallway outside of Iren's office.

Ray took a sip and savored the hot foam for a moment before speaking, "Listen, I don't think we need to rewrite the whole fucking script. All we have to do is substitute shoot everywhere it says shit. Everywhere it says fuckin we put in freakin and so on."

"Great idea shmuck lips," Iren said shaking his head. "We're gonna have Tom Cruise saying shoot and freakin every other word. Nice."

They both paused as a hot chick walked by.

"Hey, come here for a second," Ray shouted out after her.

The hot girl turned around and walked their way. Iren couldn't take his eyes off of her feet.

"Yes, sir. Is everything alright?" she asked innocently.

Ray shook his head. "No, everything is not alright. I watched you walk by, shaking that little ass of yours. It doesn't look to me like you're wearing any underwear. Am I right? And don't be fucking lying to me because I'll check if I have to."

Her face turned crimson. "I'm not. I don't know...they're just really restrictive. I know I should, but..."

Ray had heard enough. "No buts; that's a section five code violation of office policy."

"Am I going to get fired?" she asked, her voice quivering.

"That's not up to me. But you can bet your tattooed little ass you're going to go straight to the boss' office and explain to him why you're the only one around here who can walk around with no underwear on."

Her knees bent towards each other like she might pee right there on the carpet. Ray had made a few of them pee themselves. "Am I excused," she asked.

"Yeah, you're fucking excused," Ray snarled. " Now get the fuck out of here! Go show the boss what you've done!"

She burst into tears, held her hand over her mouth, turned, and ran off.

Iren looked at Ray. "A section five violation? Where do you get this mishigas from?"

Ray shrugged. "Hey fuck it, Stan's having a rough day. Let him have some fun."

Stan sat in his office in the same chair as before but now found himself opposite Ellie, the scummiest Middle Easterner in the entertainment business. Ellie was a tall, good-looking guy who had hustled his way into the industry via a dry-cleaning business.

"Ellie, I really can't do this right now. I have a new investor meeting to prepare for," Stan said convincingly, as it was actually the truth.

Ellie hadn't heard a word. "Stan, we have a whole slate of great new scripts. We really need you to back us up."

"Ellie, how the fuck would you know if they're great scripts? Did you actually read them?"

"Stan, c'mon. You know I can't read. I can feel these things."

"Ellie, you've lost six hundred million dollars on your last six movies. Maybe a little less feeling and a little more reading would be a good idea."

"It wasn't my money; I got it all from people trying to evade taxes in Germany. And besides, you know I phonied up the budgets so I could steal half the money for myself. By my count, I only lost three hundred million dollars of other people's money," Ellie declared proudly.

"Well as impressive as that may be to yourself, I'm really only interested in movies that make money. So I have to pass." Stan stood, hoping Ellie would do the same so he could see him out.

Ellie looked up at Stan. His expression made it clear he would not be taking the hint. Stan sat back down and Ellie continued. "Stan, all I need is for you to guarantee that you will put my crappy movies on one of your screens in one of your theatres somewhere—in the middle of nowhere if you want. And I can trigger one billion dollars in new financing from the Germans based on having domestic distribution."

"Sorry Ellie, I can't do it. The state of California got sued for cruel and unusual punishment just for showing one of your movies to inmates at San Quentin. Think about that for a second. Charles Manson would rather be locked up in a ten by ten cement room for the rest of his life than watch one of your piece of shit movies."

"Who's Charles Manson?" Ellie asked, confused.

Stan tried to imagine how the guy had ever even made it cleaning clothes. "The answer is no. Never. Not going to happen."

Ellie still wasn't listening. "I'll pay you five...no make it ten million dollars a movie to show them on one screen, let's say for two weeks."

"Fifteen million for one week," Stan countered, all business."

"It's a deal!" Ellie held his hand across the coffee table made from actual gold stolen from King Tutankhamen's tomb. "Let's drink some Arrack!"

"I can't right now," Stan said, trying to shake his hand loose from Ellie's tight grasp. "I really have to get into my next meeting," Stan insisted. Then noticing a strange look on Ellie's face. He followed his stare to the hot young girl now standing in his office. She had pulled up her mini-skirt to reveal that she had no underwear on.

"What's going to happen to me?" she asked anxiously.

"I'd like to get _into_ your next meeting," said Ellie without breaking eye contact with the girl's naked crotch.

Stan looked at the girl. " Could you hold on a second? I'll be right with you." He looked back across the priceless gold table at Ellie. "Bring me a check tomorrow. Now get out of my office and close the door." Stan waited a minute for Ellie to depart, unescorted. He looked at the girl's crotch, which was French waxed nicely, then forced himself to look up at her face. "Listen, whatever your name happens to be. If you walk into my office, pull up your mini-skirt, and reveal that you have no panties on, what do you think is going to happen to you?"

"Well, Ray made it sound like I'm going to get screwed for violating section five of the company's dress code."

Stan pointed at himself. "Get screwed by me? I like it."

"He said you were the only one with the authority," she added.

"Oh, I got you." Stan appreciated Ray's concern for relieving his stress level. "Do me a favor and pull down your skirt. The whole vertical smile thing is throwing me off." She obliged and he continued, "The company doesn't have a dress code and there is no such thing as a section five. Ray was just messing with you."

"So I'm not fired."

"No, but walking in here like that could still get you screwed. So, I suggest you skamper."

She pulled her skirt back up and took a step towards Stan. "What code would I be violating if I sat on your lap right now?"

Stan looked down at the bulge in his pants. "I haven't measured since I was a kid. But I'd say a code ten."

She immediately straddled him, sat on his bulge and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Well you'd better write me up then."

CHAPTER NINE

Show Me The Money

In the Peters Entertainment conference room, a large group of Hasidic Jews sat around the table waiting not so patiently. Marle stood at the counter behind the conference table. Frustrated, she pushed the intercom extension to Stan's office for the sixth time.

Marle did her best to fake a sweet and caring voice. "Stan, all the guys from Hebrew National Bank are here waiting for you."

Back in Stan's office, the hot girl had taken her top off and was riding Stan's code ten violator like a mechanical bull.

Marle smiled at the Hasidic Jews. They glared back, angry that she had yet to get a response from Stan's office.

"Stan, I know you're there. Everybody is waiting," she said still faking her pleasant tone.

Stan's voice finally answered back. "I'm cumming, I'm cumming. Oh, I'm cumming. Yeah baby!"

Marle hastily pressed the speakerphone button disconnecting the call. "Fucker," she said under her breath. Then turned to face the Jews. "He should be coming any second."

The wise old Rabbi nodded his approval. "Yes, he sounded very enthusiastic."

Marle's eyes twinkled as she flashed her phony Jersey Jew smile. "Yes, he certainly did."

"Is he always so involved with his work?" asked the Rabbi.

Marle kept the bullshit grin glued to her face. "I would call him the hands-on type."

"So he gets deeply involved," the Rabbi probed further.

Marle kept smiling but realized she was clenching her fingers into a fist so tightly that her nails might be drawing her own blood. "Very deeply, whenever he possibly can, Rabbi."

"Good, this is very good!" exclaimed the Rabbi to the whole group of Hasidim.

"Would you guys like a snack?" Marle asked, trying to get her mind off of what Stan might have just eaten.

They stared at her blankly.

"Would you guys like a _nosh_? Stan picked some c _hazarai_ up on the way into the office this morning," she said drawing on her not so extensive Yiddish vocabulary.

Smiles broke out around the table the way they always do when Jews realize there's food.

"Well, maybe a little _nosh_ while we wait," said the Rabbi his face glowing like a jack o' lantern.

Marle pressed the button on the counter next to the phone, which caused the presentation wall to retract revealing five contiguous Sub Zero refrigerators. She opened the door on the far left. "I think he said it was in here." She began pulling out platter after platter of food. Every time she put one down on the table the men in the black hats made a very happy grumbling sound.

She began to point out the selection. "Lox, bagels, cream cheese, herring, gefeltifish, horseradish, matzo ball soup, challah, hamentashen...then reaching back into the fridge...oh and here's some of that Manischewitz wine you guys all like so much." The grumbling filled the room loudly. Marle held up her hand. "And some music." She hit the button on the built in Bang and Olufsen, which immediately began playing Hava Nagilah and the party was on.

Stan walked in on cue dressed like a Hasidic Jew, fake beard and all. "Rabbi!" he shouted.

"Shmulie!" the Rabbi's face was on fire.

Stan interlocked the crook of his right arm with the crook of the Rabbi's right arm and started to dance the Kazzazki. Everyone else stood and joined in. A bunch of Jews whirling each other around like a Chabad Telethon. Marle, freaked out, could only stand and watch the bizarre spectacle. After a minute of hard dancing, Stan grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the wet bar and held it up. The Rabbi nodded his approval and the whole group proceeded to do shot after shot as they danced.

The Rabbi pulled Stan to a stop and clasped his face between both of his sizable Hasidic hands. "Shmulie, you look great!"

Stan was nervous about his beard being pulled off but thankfully he had used the fast drying glue. "So do you Rabbi!"

"What type of deal have you got for us Shmulie?" asked the Rabbi in a deep serious manner.

"How does a twenty percent annual return on your money sound?"

The Rabbi looked at the Bang and Olufsen and the music stopped magically. The Hasidim stopped dancing and crowded around to listen.

"Shmulie, twenty percent sounds good. But this business you're in—well it just doesn't seem that kosher. The people you deal with seem less than honest."

Stan was prepared for this hurdle. "No, Rabbi they're nice people. Honest, decent, wholesome people. Would you like to meet a couple of my associates?"

"It's not necessary, I trust you Shmulie," said the Rabbi, which meant he absolutely wanted to meet them.

"I insist." Stan looked over at Marle, who was cowering in some type of shock in the corner. "Marle, call Ray and Iren. See if they can stop in and say hello for a second."

Marle hit the speakerphone button. "Iren, Ray, Stan wants to know if you can come say hi to all the Rabbi guys?"

"Tell him we're praying but we're just about finished," Iren said sounding like the messiah.

The Rabbi nodded his approval. "Shmulie, how much money are you looking for?"

Stan glanced down, pretending to be embarrassed and shy about the whole matter. "Five hundred million or a billion would be nice."

The Rabbi shook his head and put his hand on Stan's shoulder, which he squeezed tightly. "Shmulie, you can't run a business if you're under capitalized. You mustn't be timid. How much do you really need?" His eyes burned into Stan's often-misunderstood soul.

"I don't want to seem..." Stan hesitated, thinking that things were going very well.

"Shmulie, we're family. How much?" the Rabbi demanded.

"A billion five," Stan said just as Iren and Ray walked in dressed as Hasidic Jews, glued on beards and all.

"Shalom, shalom, everybody!" they both shouted in unison.

The Rabbi stared at them in amazement for a moment. "These are your associates?" he asked, obviously impressed.

Stan tightened and tucked his lips towards his own teeth and nodded. The combination of the two gestures signaled great pride and truth in what was being acknowledged. He had learned this fact from watching the Discovery Channel one night. "I think of them more like brothers."

It worked. The Rabbi, moved by Stan's obviously deep feelings, hugged Iren and Ray. Once released, Iren whipped out a bottle of Shlivovitz from under his long black coat and held it up for all to see.

"Shlivovitz!" he shouted.

Ray grabbed a glass from the table, which Iren filled up. "Le Chaim!" shouted Ray.

"Le Chaim!" They all shouted back, downing their shots.

Marle, thinking someone must have slipped something into her mochachino when she was in the break room, hit the button on the Bang and Olufsen and the music filled the room; the dancing resumed more feverish than before.

The Rabbi was spinning Stan around at a dizzying speed. "Shmulie, I say we give it a try! But keep our money out of the T & A stuff."

Stan thought he felt his blood platelets separating from the centrifugal force. " Not a worry Rabbi, the Pope will crucify me if I cut anyone else in on that market."

"It figures, that's what happens when you haven't had a woman in eighty years!" The Rabbi stopped whirling suddenly. "Speaking of which young man, isn't it time that you settle down?" The Rabbi looked across the room at Marle who looked back nervously and waved.

Stan tried to focus his eyes but the room was still moving even though he wasn't. "I'm only forty," Stan said, feigning wonderment at the question, then peered over the Rabbi's broad shoulders, he noticed Marle had picked up an incoming call.

The Rabbi moved slightly, blocking Stan's view. "I had twelve children by the time I was your age, Shmulie...Shmulie, I like that girl." The Rabbi pointed his thumb back Marle's direction.

"Yeah I'll tell him," Marle said, hanging up the phone and wondering why the Rabbi was pointing at her.

"I don't know Rabbi, she's so..." Stan shrugged, struggling to find the right word. "I don't know...opinionated."

The Rabbi pinched Stan's cheek then gave it a pat. "Shmulie, forget about such trivial concerns. If a woman is a good cook and hot in bed, that's all that matters. And of course we would feel much more comfortable with your financing proposal if you were married."

Marle walked over to where they stood. She hadn't wanted to, but she needed to tell Stan that his next appointment had arrived.

Stan realized that the Rabbi was going to have to be appeased. "If I'm married I'll probably need a little more money."

"How much?" asked the Rabbi, intent on making sure Stan would be getting married soon no matter how much it cost.

Stan felt nauseous but managed to think of a number that it would be worth ruining his life for. "Two billion on a revolving line for the next five years."

The Rabbi smiled from ear to ear. "Okay. But I want you two married by the end of the month."

"They'll do it!" yelled out Iren and Ray simultaneously before Stan could answer himself.

Marle's face filled with consternation. Her eyes became slits. "You told me you weren't marrying her."

"Marrying who?" asked the Rabbi.

Stan gave Marle a life-threatening look, then smiled. "You. I'm marrying you!"

"Mazel tov!" yelled the Rabbi, followed by a chorus of "Mazel tov's!"

Everybody began hugging everybody else as Marle stood looking on, dumbfounded.

Thirty minutes later, Stan sat behind his desk. He had put his handmade Zegna suit back on and picked what he hoped was the last piece of quick drying beard glue off his face. The homicide detective, a balding, middle-aged man with a sturdy build, who had written the terrible script "Murder in Tinseltown", sat on the other side of the desk. Marle stood next to him, ignoring his presence altogether, and screamed at Stan.

"Married! Are you crazy? Are you completely out of your mind? There's something wrong with you. I am married!"

Stan gave the detective a "Bear with me" look and then looked up toward Marle. "You're legally separated."

She rested her right hand on her hip. "Translation: still married."

"It's just a matter of some paperwork," Stan said casually.

Marle glared. "That he has to be served. And do I need to remind you that nobody knows where he went after he sold the house and split with all the money?"

The homicide detective looked at Stan. "You know, if this is a bad time, I could come back later."

Stan answered the detective while not breaking eye contact with Marle. "No, this is a great time for you to be here. I might have a homicide for you to investigate in the next couple of minutes."

Marle was up to the task. Her parents had set a good example. "Seriously, I'd rather be dead than married to you."

"He's in Miami," Stan said plainly. "I can have him served tomorrow if you want. And then we can get married."

Marle's hand fell from her hip. "You know where he is?" she asked in disbelief. But then, she believed it. Of course he wouldn't have told her unless he had to. "How long have you known?"

"For a while." Stan shrugged. Even he felt a little guilty about not telling her this critical information. But the money from the house would have given her financial independence; he really had no choice but to keep it from her.

"How long?" she demanded.

"Eleven months," he fessed up.

"You've known where he's been all along and didn't tell me?" she asked, still trying to get her mind around his treachery.

"Yeah, that's pretty much the case. But it was for your own good." Stan felt better that there was some basis for this statement.

"For my own good? Why don't you just admit that you kept this from me because you were afraid we'd get back together? I bet you can't stand the thought of me in his arms?"

"Her arms," Stan corrected. "He had a sex change operation with the money he got from the house and shacked up with a guy named Nathan."

Marle put the palm of her right hand to her forehead. "Nathan Gubitz, that fat, bald, little bastard. He sat at my table and ate my food every Friday night."

"Well now it seems like he's eating your husband more often than that." Stan felt a tingle in his face. It was a laugh tremor.

Don't do it old boy. If you laugh now, she'll flip. For two billion dollars you have to refrain.

Her eyes teared up for a split second then became cold as steel. "You know what, I should marry you just to get even with him."

This was just the breakthrough Stan had been hoping for. "See, now you're thinking clearly."

"Serve him tomorrow," she commanded. "Oh, and don't even think of getting me a ring under ten-carats or I'll tell the Rabbis what type of Hasidic Jew you really are." With that, she turned and walked out of the room, seemingly happy.

The detective's face filled with confusion. "You're a Hasidic Jew? You don't look like any of the Hasidic Jews I know."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not a Hasidic Jew. I was just pretending to be one to raise two billion dollars in new financing. But things got a little out of hand while we were dancing the Hora and now it looks like I'm going to have to marry Marle to get the money."

The detective pressed the tips of the fingers of both of his hands together. "And I thought my job was dangerous!"

"Do you mind if I call you Ed?" asked Stan.

"If we're here to talk about you making my script into a movie, you can call me Shirley and I won't care."

"Surely you jest?" Stan said in jest.

Marle walked back through the doorway with _Brides Magazine_ in hand. She was glowing. "Did he just call you Shirley?" she asked Ed.

The detective looked at the completely transformed girl. His many years of studying human character had led him to the conclusion that very large diamonds could pretty much help any woman get over anything very quickly. "Yes, he did. But I'm alright with it."

"Ellie' s on the phone. He says he just needs to talk to you for a minute."

"Tell him it better be important. And is there some reason that you're not using the intercom?"

She came around his side of the desk and laid the magazine down in front of him. "Yeah, I want you to take a look at some dresses."

"Brides Magazine?" Stan questioned.

"I put stick-its on the ones I like," Marle bubbled.

Stan hit the speakerphone button ignoring the magazine and Marle's stare. "Ellie, I'm in a meeting on a murder mystery script. What the fuck is so important?"

"Murder mystery? I love it!" said the distinctly Middle Eastern voice. I'll come in with you. I'll be your co-executive producer."

"Ellie, what did I tell you about reading a script before you actually make a movie?"

"Details, details, I'm a big-picture guy. I can't be bothered with trivial nonsense. Count me in!"

"Ellie, what do you want?"

"The Germans are getting tough. They've asked me to present a trailer for each movie I want to make."

"So what's the problem?" Stan asked, thinking back to the time he cut a trailer while getting a lap dance—just to prove to himself that he could multitask.

"I don't know what a trailer is."

Stan couldn't help himself. "It's the thing you tow behind your car until you find a park filled with people who are married to their cousins to park it in." Stan hit the speakerphone button and turned his attention back to the homicide detective named Ed that he called Shirley. "It's idiots like him that give the rest of us a bad name. I'm sorry for the interruptions."

"That's okay—I'm starting to feel like a real Hollywood insider."

Stan looked across the desk and tilted his head down slightly. "Give me a few more minutes and trust me, when I'm done, you're going to feel like family."

Marle's voice came back over the intercom, which struck Stan funny because he hadn't noticed that she had left the room. "Ellie's on the phone again," she said in the nagging intercom voice that turned him on to the point of wanting to do her on the desk just to shut her up.

Stan hit the speakerphone button. "What now?"

"The Germans said they don't need trailers for their cars. They need them for my movies."

Stan decided there was no more time for fun and games with Ellie and the Germans. And since he hadn't completely forgiven them for World War II, he kind of enjoyed watching Ellie lose their money. "They want you to make a mini-movie of each movie you're going to make before you make it."

"So they want to see the trailer first?" Ellie questioned still more remarkably.

"Yes, that's how it usually works," Stan answered, pulling his gold Mont Blanc from his coat pocket and rotating it across his fingers...Anything to not lose it in front of Ed.

"I asked my assistant to look it up in the dictionary and he says that a trailer is something that comes after something else. So how could a trailer be what comes before a movie?"

Stan dropped the pen. "Because, normally you have to make the movie first to have the footage you need to make a trailer to show before the movie."

"But, they want me to make the trailer first? I don't understand."

"Ellie remember the camels you played with as a kid?"

"Like it was yesterday."

"The oats go in the mouth and the shit comes out the ass. Shoot a couple scenes from the scripts you don't read and they'll give you the money."

"So the oats are the scenes, the Germans are the camel, and the money is the shit." Ellie finally managed to put together.

"Now you've got it," answered Stan.

Ellie's voice had the spark of enlightenment. "You could be a college professor..."

Stan hit the speakerphone button, cutting him off. He looked at Ed but thought for a moment about all the young chicks he could get if he were a college professor. "Ed, here's the deal. I'll make "Murder in Tinseltown" and pay you a million dollars for the rights. You can hang around the set all you want and I'll throw in a producer title."

Ed smiled nervously. "Stan, I don't know what to say."

Stan gave him the famous Stan deal-closing smile. "Ed, I'm having a crazy day so just say yes."

"Yes, of course yes. This is the dream of a lifetime just coming true like that. Stan, if you ever need anything and I mean _anything_...I mean what could I ever do to possibly repay you?"

Stan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "You know Ed, it's funny you should ask."

Marle sat at her desk filing her nails and perusing exotic honeymoon destination websites. She thought she was homing in on just the right spot when the phone rang.

"Hey Marle, is Stan in?" it was Brianna.

"Hey Brianna, how's it going over at the studio?"

"Piece of cake, I'll be done here in no time."

"Well that's great, then you can get started on your wedding plans." Marle had to put her hand over the mouthpiece to keep Brianna from hearing her malicious snicker.

Brianna's voice filled with the pride and confidence of being the winner. "I know. I can't wait. And Marle, I understand this isn't easy for you. But don't worry, I have a feeling that you'll be hearing wedding bells of your own really soon."

"Oh, Brianna that's so sweet of you to say. Do you want to talk to the future husband?" Marle had to cover the mouthpiece again as she snickered at her own cleverness.

"Yeah, he asked me to call when things were set."

"I'll put you through." Marle hit the intercom button for Stan's office. "Hey Stan, your ex-future wife is on the phone."

Stan looked at the phone and wondered why everything always happened at once. "I'm sorry Ed, just a little blackmail thing I'm working on." Ed gave him an understanding nod as he hit the speakerphone button. "Brianna my love, I want to hear some good news right now."

Her voice was excited like a high school girl. "I got the job! And Brad is taking me to dinner tonight. He told me that we're going to be working very closely together and he thought it would be a good idea if we took some time to get to know each other."

Stan rubbed his hands together with greedy anticipation. "Get him back to your place; Danny will have it all wired up by tonight. Tell him it's a big turn on for you if he puts on your lingerie."

"If you can, get him to use some anal beads," Ed suggested loudly toward the phone. "It's always a nice touch."

"Did you hear that?" Stan asked wanting to make sure—he loved the idea.

"Anal beads, got it," Brianna assured. "Oh sweetie, I hear someone coming, better get off the phone. See you later. I love you."

"I love you too..." Stan said and hit the speakerphone button. "Not...So Ed, about that one little thing you could do for me."

"Name it Stan, whatever you need."

Stan leaned forward again and put his elbows on the desk. This time he was going to finish the deal. "Well, a former employee and good friend of mine just discovered that his wife fucked their gay decorator, then killed him and herself with a twelve-gauge shotgun."

"Murder suicide," Ed observed raising his brow and wrinkling his forehead. The look of acknowledged but unspoken complicity. "Normally something like this would be a big deal—but what the hell! No reason for a good friend of yours to be put through the ringer."

Stan nodded his approval. "Go to the house, take his statement, send for the meat wagon, and meet me later for drinks at Trader Vic's."

"Sounds great," Ed exclaimed picturing a director's chair with his name on it.

CHAPTER TEN

Up In Smoke

Danny stood at the end of the conference table where the two very unhappy looking rappers sat.

"Sounds like bullshit," said the rapper known as Little Biscuit.

"No, sounds like bullshit money to me," added LLBJ.

Danny shook his head. "My brothers, money is money. Get it while the getting is green," he implored evangelically.

"Where the fuck is Stan?" LLBJ asked. "He'll straighten this shit out."

Danny decided it was time to play the blame game. "It's the studio. Even Stan the man can't change this plan."

Little Biscuit slouched down even further in his seat. "No, fuck that Danny!"

Danny stood taller, trying to get a good look at Little Biscuit—baffled as to why young rappers couldn't sit up in their chairs. "Listen, my upset little brother. You're under the Stan Peters' umbrella. For an honor like that, you should be willing to work for free."

Little Biscuit's eyes became slits and his lips puckered together like a child about to throw a tantrum. "Tell Stan we want our fucking money or we're walking the fuck out of here."

Just as Little Biscuit finished his provocative statement, Stan walked in—now dressed in a black mink coat and lots of bling jewelry. Five monstrous gang bangers followed behind him.

"Yo dog, walk the fuck out of where, G?" Stan asked, pimp rolling toward the table.

Both rappers got up to give Stan some love.  
Little Biscuit asked, "What's up, nigger?" half-hugging Stan.

"Same old bullshit," answered Stan, grinning to reveal the removable gold-tooth cap, encrusted with a perfect half-carat diamond. "Got the popo at the studio on my ass."

LLBJ slid back down into his chair. "Yo dog, seventy percent pay cut. We ain't no kind of bitches. This is some fucked up bullshit."

Beau Gibson, the handsome, fifty-something, African American attorney well known for representing rappers, spoke for the first time. "Stan, we have a contract." His baritone voice left no doubt that he was as straight as an arrow. Beau Gibson, the famous bowtie-wearing attorney, was well known for being absolutely incorruptible.

Stan sat, followed by Danny and Little Biscuit. Stan's thugs stood in a row behind his chair.

Stan looked at the diamond rings that covered the fingers of his right hand and then adjusted the diamond tennis bracelet on his right wrist. The tennis bracelet had been made to match the diamond necklace that he was wearing. All together the bling kit had cost three million dollars which, fortunately enough, he was able to bill to an urban movie titled "Diamonds Be A Nigger Gangsta's Best Friend". After fiddling with the bling long enough to make everyone nervous, Stan began to talk some real shit.

"Yo Beau, I be feel'n your concern. But before everybody be getting hostile, let's relax and dialogue." Stan pulled a huge joint from the pocket of his black mink jacket and put a torch to it. He took a monster Cheech and Chong hit then passed it to LLBJ. "That's some good shit, dog. It will fuck you up," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke into the room.

LLBJ took a monster hit like Stan. His eyes glassed over. "Fuck yeah, that's dope- ass shit. What the fuck is it?"

Stan pointed at Little Biscuit, the signal for LLBJ to be sharing. "You've heard of Chronic?" Stan asked.

"Oh yeah," LLBJ answered.

Stan nodded. "Well this shit is called Critical. Because one hit puts you in critical condition."

Little Biscuit exhaled. "Fuck, you my nigger! Where'd you get this fucking weed?" he asked, so stoned that he didn't even realize that he had just passed the joint to Beau, the famously straight-laced attorney.

Stan watched Beau examine the joint for a moment then take the biggest hit yet. "From my doctor, it's extra strength medical marijuana."

"Fuck, what you got to have to get this shit?" asked Little Biscuit.

Danny took a hit and passed the joint back to Stan, who took another hit even though he was already plenty stoned. "Well normally you have to be dying an incredibly painful death. But I opted to option a medical drama, if you get my drift."

"I can't feel my face," Beau's baritone voice exclaimed. "Is it supposed to feel like this?"

"Close your eyes and just go with it," suggested Stan, not able to feel his own face either—and enjoying it.

"This is fucking intense," Beau said, before accepting the joint Stan was passing to him.

Little Biscuit turned his chair slightly toward his famous attorney. "Nigger, when's the last time you smoked?"

Beau thought for a second. "Actually I haven't smoked since college. Man, I am fuckin lit."

"Yeah, you're going to be a lot more lit soon motherfucker," Little Biscuit laughed.

LLBJ slapped his own thighs. "Yo, I can't move my legs."

Beau started laughing. "If I have to piss, I'm just going to piss in my pants."

Stan took another hit. "It's all good."

"How do we get this shit?" asked Little Biscuit.

Stan snapped his fingers and one of the thugs handed him a stack of new contracts, which Stan took and slid down the table. "Sign these new contracts and I'll get you all you want."

Little Biscuit smiled, getting the game. "So we got to get fucked to get high?"

Stan shook his head coolly. "No, you have to get fucked to get this fucking high." He looked at Beau and held out the last of the monster joint, already starting to feel really hungry.

Beau took the joint greedily. "Gentleman, as your lawyer, I recommend you do the deal. This is incredible shit."

"Fuck it, rap music is a scam anyway," Little Biscuit said as he signed the new contract.

"No bullshit," LLBJ agreed, then laughed. "I can write ten songs a day," he admitted as he signed his new contract.

Stan pulled another monster joint from the pocket of his black mink coat and lit it. There was no point in stopping now.

Little Biscuit took a hit and exhaled. "I mean we knew we could make bank on black folks. But who would have ever thought a bunch of dumb white motherfuckers would listen to this shit!"

"I bet you guys aren't even from the ghetto," Stan said, stoned out of his mind.

Danny just giggled like a schoolgirl at the question.

LLBJ took a hit. "The ghetto? I'm born and raised in the 90210. The closest I've ever been to the ghetto is South Beverly Hills."

Stan's eyes rolled to Little Biscuit.

Little Biscuit looked down at the table. "Don't look at me dog, I grew up in Calabasas. I didn't even know I was black until my parents told me. I was eight fucking years old. Man I was like, 'Fuck, you told me there was no Santa Clause before you told me I was black.' Anyway, I went to Harvard Westlake; my dad is a college professor and my mom is an accountant."

Stan looked from one rapper to the other. "Well guys, you may be taking a big pay cut, but at least you'll be too fucked up to care."

Ray and Iren were shucking and rolling towards the conference room dressed in the exact same outfits as Stan when the door opened, emitting a large cumulous nimbus cloud of smoke into the hallway. Danny and Stan appeared to float out in its mist.

"Yo, what's going on motherfucker?" shouted Iren.

Stan tried to wave away some of the smoke so as to get a better view of Iren and Ray. "The meeting's over."

"How'd it go?" Iren asked, his curiosity overriding his disappointment at not being part of ripping off the rappers.

Stan was momentarily distracted by Iren's white ostrich skin Gucci sandals.

Danny, sensing this, answered, "They got screwed better than Jenna Jamison in "Night Of A Thousand Cocks"."

Ray rubbed his hand down his mink coat. "Man we got all dressed up."

Iren's voice was excited. "They took a seventy percent pay cut?"

"And a lot of weed," Stan answered. "But what the hell, we have more than we can smoke anyway."

"You know, if your little plan works and Brad becomes our bitch, we could reverse their pay cut," suggested Iren, trying to feel out just how impaired Stan really was.

Stan burst into hysterical laughter, joined by Danny.

"And I thought we were smoking some good shit," Danny gasped.

"They should be paying us," Ray said with disgust. "I don't know how anyone listens to that crap. Man, when I was growing up you could catch a beating just for looking at a girl the wrong way. Now you can't get laid if you're not calling them bitches or whores."

Stan turned to Ray. "They had music when you were growing up?" He looked back at Danny and they continued to laugh.

"Come on, I'm fucking serious," Ray, insisted. " I know we do a lot of bad shit. But putting out all these songs that kids listen to. I mean there's a song on the new sound- track called 'Suck My Dick You Underage Bitch'."

Stan shook his head. "No, we changed that."

"To what?" asked a hopeful Ray.

Stan tried to keep a straight face. "'Reach For Your Toes You Statutory Ho's'. See, even I don't want to offend the parents of our best customers." Stan laughed again.

Iren nodded. "Offend their parents? What are you, kidding? Their parents have no idea what's going on."

Ray was in denial. "There's got to be at least one parent somewhere that's concerned about the shit we're selling."

Stan reached into his pocket, hoping to find another joint since Ray was killing his buzz. "Ray, we can't be in these people's homes," Stan pulled his hand out, empty. "And let me tell you, some of the parents listen to this shit too."

Ray had the stunned look of a man whose testicles had just met a pair of jumper cables attached to a car battery. "You're fucking kidding me?"

"Ray, a lot of these parents think they're teenagers themselves. They smoke pot with their kids and fuck their nannies."

"What's wrong with fucking the nanny?" asked a concerned Danny.

"Nothing, but I'm trying to make a point. Which is, all of this thirty is the new twenty bullshit is ludicrous. If we're really going to start messing around with the aging process, forty should be the new seventeen—which at least would expand my dating options."

Danny tapped his finger on the face of his diamond-crusted Rolex. "Speaking of being in people's homes."

"Is it show time?" asked Stan, moving past the disappointment of having not found more sticks in his pocket to put the torch to.

"Boss, in a few more minutes Brad Jones will be getting more camera coverage than a high-speed car chase," Danny assured.

Stan smiled. "I can't wait. Oh by the way, how did that little double homicide thing go?"

"What the fuck happened to your tooth?" asked Ray, distracted by a blinding flash of light from Stan's mouth.

Stan smiled for their closer inspection. Iren, being a Jew, always had a jeweler 's loop on him. He pulled it from his pocket and held it up to Stan's mouth. "That's a flawless half-carat. Better not swallow that thing or we'll have to have the interns go through your shit."

Stan reached up with his thumb and forefinger and pulled the cap off. He admired the diamond, then handed it to Danny. "Put it away before Iren has some college kids straining my stool."

Danny looked at the fake tooth in the palm of his hand. It was still moist and he didn't know what to say. So, he just waited for the boss to continue.

"Now, as far as our good deed for the day..." Stan gesticulated with his right hand in a rolling forward motion for Danny to tell him more about their murder cover-up.

Danny nodded with great satisfaction and bit his lower lip as he did so. Stan had learned on the Discovery Channel that this was a sure sign of a compelling story to come.

"Boss, I wish you could have been there to see it."

Danny stood in the very large bedroom of Warren's Beverly Hills mansion. At the entrance to the bedroom was a sitting room, appointed with black and deep burgundy furniture situated around a half wall. This contained an entertainment center in the middle of which was a 53-inch plasma screen. Warren, cleaned-up and well dressed in one of Danny's brown Versace pinstripe suits, stood next to Danny—thirty feet beyond the sitting room in front of the king-size, heavy wood, four-poster-bed.

Danny looked around the bedroom. His eyes paused at the bed where the two brutally shotgunned bodies lay. One of the shotgun blasts up the fag decorator's ass had blown the top of his head off. Most of his gene defective brain was now splattered on the spectacular David Hockney that hung above the headboard.

Danny stared at the painting. "You know, I kind of like what you've done with the Hockney." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It really adds some dimension to the work. There's something very Frank Stella about it."

Warren's eyes drifted up from the carnage that had been his wife, the love of his life—to have and to hold until death did they part—to the painting. "I see your point. But I don't think the cops will let me keep it that way."

"Well that's a damn shame," Danny commented. "Warren, I do have to ask you a serious question, if you're feeling up to it."

"I knew what I was doing and I enjoyed it," Warren said, calm and preemptively.

Danny stepped forward and touched the right rear bedpost. "What I wanted to ask you was whether or not you've ever tied anyone up to these things. I mean, it's kinky, but I've always fantasized about it."

Warren nodded. "I used to tie my whore wife up to them all the time. You know Danny, what really hurts me?"

Danny walked around the side of the bed and noticed that Warren really had blown his cheating bitch of a wife's face off. He also noticed that the thread count of the sheets and pillowcases seemed to be at least 800, a very good count. "Well, if it were me, it would be the damage to the linen."

Warren nodded. "I don't think I can ever sleep in that bed again. And it's a real bitch to move."

Danny stood next to Warren and looked at the fine piece of furniture. He put his hand on Warren's shoulder to comfort him the way only a true friend can do. "I'll take it off your hands if you want."

A single tear emerged then rolled from the corner of Warren's eye down the side of his cheek. "Thanks man. It's going to take a football team to get it out of here."

"I'll get some brothers down in South Central to move it to my place. They'll probably want to work at night when the boss lets them use the truck for their own jobs, if you know what I mean."

Warren shrugged. "Not a problem. I'm sure I won't be able to sleep anyway."

Danny laughed. "Not with all the chicks we'll have in the Jacuzzi by then."

"And that's a hell of a Jacuzzi you got back there!" Ed commented as he walked into the room. "You could get twenty people in that thing. And I love the Pebble Tech pool!"

Danny extended his hand. "Good to see you, Detective. Thanks for coming on such short notice. So, what do you think about the swim-up bar between the Jacuzzi and the pool?"

"Impressive." Ed shrugged and looked at Warren, "A lot of terrible accidents happen in pools and Jacuzzis in this town." He nodded toward the bed. "I mean, it would have been a lot easier on everybody if their affair had ended in the Jacuzzi."

Warren looked down, ashamed of his lack of creativity. Since becoming an executive, something had happened to it. It was as if he was out of touch with the rest of the world. "I don't know what to say, Detective. I just came home and found them like this."

Ed nodded. "It's obviously a murder/suicide." He walked up to the large bed and pulled the shotgun barrel out of the fag's ass. He looked at the shotgun for a moment. "You know, if everyone would just get one of these for the house, the world would be a much better place." Ed looked at the dead cheating bitch closely. She was lying on her stomach, her head turned to the right, and her face missing. His trajectory analysis led his eyes to the lampshade on the nightstand. "Well, that's not good."

Danny stepped forward—seeing what the detective's highly trained eye had so adroitly noticed. "Oh shit! You're not kidding."

"What is it?" Warren asked, panicked.

The detective pointed at the light switch on the wall. "Turn on the lights. You have some real trouble my friend."

Warren approached the light panel with dread and with great trepidation he depressed the button. "Oh fuck!" he said, stepping forward. His wife's face was stuck to the lampshade of the rare Tiffany lamp. With the light on, she appeared as a macabre mask.

Danny put his hand on Warren's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a rare Tiffany. I have two. I just feel for you right now."

Warren stared at his dead wife's transplanted face. "Is it possible to love someone even if you hate what they've done to you?"

"Not according to Stan," Danny responded. "Stan says, 'that someone who loves someone that fucks them over is fucked in the head.'"

"Thanks Danny. That's some profound stuff."

Ed pulled a notepad from his pocket, wrote a number on it and handed it to Warren. "I'm not supposed to do this, but call that number. The guy specializes in this type of restoration."

Warren folded the paper and put it into his pocket. "Thanks, I don't know what to say."

Ed gently pushed on Warren's wife's shoulder—getting just enough clearance from the mattress to slip the shotgun underneath her. Then, even more carefully, he wrapped her cold, dead hand around the gun. "One last little thing," he said, poking her lifeless finger through the metal loop and then wrapping it around the trigger. "We'll just keep this between us, okay fellas?" Ed smiled and gave Warren and Danny a wink.

Danny nodded. "Oh shit she killed him and then killed herself. I mean of course I see what you mean now." He looked at Warren.

Warren shrugged. "What should I do now, Detective?"

"Well, now that I've got your full statement, there's no point in hanging around here. You two should probably go grab a drink somewhere quiet...Try to look upset, cry a little, that kind of thing. Oh and whatever you do, don't go shopping for a while—it looks terrible."

Danny pointed his finger at Ed like a pistol and dropped his thumb like the hammer. "Gotcha, Ed. I'll be sure to tell Stan what a great help you've been to us in Warren's time of need."

They all smiled warmly at each other, thankful to live in such a great town—a place where creativity wasn't just a business or an accounting system but a way of life.

Danny paused to let the docent, leading a tour group, explain one of the masterpieces on the wall of the Peters Entertainment hallway. "Mr. Peters has a particular inclination toward using large Sam Francis oils in communal footways. I am told it is his belief that the broad array of colors taken from the Francis pallet stimulates free thinking and creativity in the workplace." The group moved on.

Stan looked at Danny. "Free thinking, communal footways? Where do they get this shit from?"

"Well boss, she can't exactly say that you bought them because they look cool when you're rolling on E."

Stan shook his head. "Speaking of E, we really have to get a new supplier before Burning Man this year. Anyway, are you telling me Ed ruled it a murder suicide in three minutes flat?"

"I think it took about two minutes to be exact, boss. Oh—and Warren promised he would get the studio to pick up the tab for "Murder In Tinseltown"".

Stan's mouth stretched into a broad smile. "Now that's what I call a Hollywood- style happy ending!"

Danny nodded toward the office. "We better go. It's almost time."

Stan clapped his hands together. "This is going to be great."

"Great, would be an explanation of why you're dressed like that!"

Stan turned toward the voice behind him and looked down at the stout man in the three-piece-suit. "Is that a real pocket watch?" he asked, his eyes having been drawn directly to the gold chain.

"Yes, it is," said the stout gentleman, his puffy cheeks ejecting the annoyed, yet prideful words through a wide, confident mouth.

"Did you lose your docent? Visitors are supposed to be supervised."

"Do you have any idea who I am?"

Stan looked at the blank faces of Iren, Ray, and Danny before answering. "Not a clue." Stan sniffed the air. "But I smell money." He sniffed the air again. "Wait...I smell a lot of money. Who are you? I like you already!" Stan put his arm around Nelson Ballsworth. "Shall we repose in my study? By the looks of you, I think you'll find it quite comfortable," Stan said guiding him through the antique, mahogany doors.

Nelson looked around the impressive, even by Ballsworth' standards, wood paneled room filled with first editions. "You've built a replica of the Hearst Castle Library in your office?"

Stan smiled proudly. "An exact replica to be precise. But how do you know that? Did you know old man Hearst? Who are you? C'mon old boy, the suspense is killing me."

"Mr. Peters, I'm Nelson Ballsworth. But please feel free to not call me old boy. And yes, I did know Mr. Hearst."

The color drained from the faces of Iren, Ray, and Danny simultaneously. Stan gestured towards the brown leather chairs on each side of the fireplace. "Nelson, what an unexpected pleasure. I've always wanted to meet you. Why didn't you call and let us know you were coming by? Please have a seat."

"Since, for no reason I can understand, we're on a first name basis. Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit, Stan?" Nelson sat down in the chair with a grunt.

Stan looked down the length of his torso and back up. "I just concluded a meeting that required some urban sensitivities. I'll be back in my suit as soon as we're done." Stan walked to the bar. "Will you join me for some Louis XIII and a Cohiba."

"Yes, thank you." Nelson's eyes focused on the plexiglass box, next to where he sat—it contained a Guttenberg Bible.

Stan handed him an antique snifter filled a third of the way with Louis and a cigar cut perfectly round the way he preferred. Stan flicked open a sterling silver Dupont lighter and Nelson leaned over, puffing his stogy to life. Stan, satisfied that his guest was comfortable, sat and crossed his legs—assuming a portrait like stature.

"This is a fine cigar, young man," Nelson said, sounding quite pleased.

"I'm glad you smoke. So many people today have given up the finer pleasures in life."

Nelson nodded. "From what I understand, you and your associates here are making up for them."

Stan lit his own cigar. "I feel a sense of duty." Danny laughed which caused Ray and Iren to wince.

Nelson gave Danny a condescending smile. "That's all right, it's good to laugh and enjoy life." He turned to Stan, his lips taking the form of a perfectly straight line. "But not too much. Because people who enjoy life too much usually do things that embarrass people like me. And people like me, above all else, do not like to be embarrassed. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Stan placed his cigar on the lip of the ashtray that sat on the table next to him. It teetered perfectly. "Balance—work hard, play hard," Stan said, looking down at the ashtray.

"Stan, my brother likes you, the board likes you, even that sycophant Brad that I put in charge of the studio likes you. But while you may have them fooled, you don't fool me. Not even for one second. A man's word and good name is everything in this world. As impressive and prolific a money maker you may be, I'm going to make it my mission to see that you grow up and do things the right way."

Stan sipped his drink. "Nelson, does the Peters Entertainment IPO have anything to do with your sudden interest in my moral development?"

"There will be no Peters Entertainment IPO," Nelson puffed on his cigar. Then continued, "Without a guarantee that the studio will continue to distribute your movies. And how can I let the studio do that if I can't be sure that you will be making the types of movies I approve of?"

"May I speak candidly?" Stan swirled the alcohol in his glass.

"It would be refreshing if someone in this town would do so." Nelson pointed his cigar at Stan. "Please, feel free."

"Bread and the circus," Stan said in a soft serious tone.

"What?" Nelson asked looking at him askew.

Stan repeated, "Bread and the circus." He put his drink down and leaned forward, pressing his hands together as if praying. "I'm quoting Caesar to Caesar. Most of your business is bread. Meeting people's basic needs. Your family, and my own, have been doing this for almost two centuries. And for most of that time it was enough. People were happy just to survive. But now the world is rich, Rome has risen again from its ashes and people want more—they want the circus, Nelson. They need food to live. But they need entertainment to make them want to live. I give them that and I'm no fucking tax write off. I'm taking Peters Entertainment public. And if the studio won't distribute my films, I'll find another studio that will."

Nelson clapped. "Bravo, bravo. No wonder they like you so much—you do have Ballsworth sized balls." He placed a hand on each thigh as if to brace himself for a jolly laugh. "Listen young man, there's no studio I can't buy and there's no investment banker that will cross Ballcom. But you go ahead with your IPO." Nelson stood up with some effort. "I will impede your every move until you make the kind of movies that I approve of. In fact, I'm going to tell Brad to stick his head so far up your rectum he'll be hearing you think."

Stan stood. "Nelson, it's been a pleasure meeting you. Next time we should do lunch."

Nelson laughed. "You might not be able to afford it, son. Thanks for the fine smoke and drink. I'll show myself out."

A feather landing on the floor would have made a thunderous sound as all eyes watched Nelson waddle out the doors to the hallway. Stan held up his hand in order to preempt any comments and picked up the phone on the table. "Marle, get me Sumner Ballsworth on the phone."

There was a long pause. "Sumner Ballsworth speaking."

"Mr. Ballsworth, this is Stan Peters calling you from Los Angeles."

"Yes, Stan. What can I do for you?" his voice had a light heartedness about it that could only mean the call was anticipated.

"Your brother Nelson just left my office."

"I thought he might come to see you. He's very concerned about all the money we're earning on those movies you seem to have such a knack for making."

"May I call you Sumner?"

"Please do. I want us to be friends."

"Sumner, how do I get your brother off my back? I can't have someone from the nineteenth century censoring my work."

"Well Stan, my brother is a powerful enemy to have. He can cause you a great deal of trouble at the studio and he can hurt your stock on Wall Street. You need a friend—a very powerful friend. Someone like—me."

"How much, Sumner?"

"Twenty percent of Peters Entertainment pre-IPO would make us very good friends. And I'll see to it that your distribution fee is capped at let's say—fifteen percent for the next ten years."

"Done deal," Stan said without hesitation—knowing better than to ever get himself into a fight he couldn't possibly win.

"You're a very smart young man. I've got big plans for you. And don't worry about that new studio boss my brother hired to do his bidding. I'll figure out a way to keep him in check."

Danny waved at Stan and then pointed at his watch while mouthing the words. "It's time."

Stan nodded toward Danny. "Thanks, Sumner. But that won't be necessary...I'll have my lawyers draw up a stock purchase agreement and send it over to you tomorrow."

"I'll be looking for it."

Stan hung up the phone and pointed out the doors to his office. "Let's go. I don't want to miss this."

"You're really going to sell twenty percent of the company to Ballcom?" Ray asked getting up from his seat.

Stan nodded. "Why not? Sumner's not such a bad old guy and he's loaded, really fucking loaded. Besides, who better to keep Nelson off my back?"

"What if they keep buying stock after we go public? You could lose control of the company," Iren's tone indicated that he saw the writing on the wall.

Stan held his hands up to his chest and wiggled his fingers frightfully. "Stop it, you're scarring me. I mean what will we do?" Stan looked at the concerned faces that stood around him. "Boys, we're all rich. If Ballcom decides to pull some kind of takeover shit, we let 'em have it...Because it'll just make us richer."

"And then what the fuck will we do?" asked Ray.

"Start a new company and keep making movies," Stan said plain as day. "You see guys, the difference between the Ballsworths of the world and yours truly is, the Ballsworths inherited money. I actually have talent."

"Talent? You're a fucking genius," said Danny.

Iren nodded. "I hate to admit it but you are the best in the business."

Stan turned to Ray. "Well, don't you have some kind of accolade?"

"What's an accolade?" Ray was lost.

"Never mind." Stan pointed at the door. "Let's go watch the guy whose head is supposed to be up my ass take it up the ass."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Happy Endings

Through a large set of brushed-stainless-steel doors at the far end of Stan Peters' office was his personal 60-seat screening room. Iren, Ray, Danny, and Stan sat in the black crocodile chairs eating popcorn and drinking Cristal as they watched the live feed of Brianna and Brad making out. Brad was dressed in a pink tutu, which Stan had been hoping for, and Brianna was dressed in the same black dominatrix outfit Stan had personally been a victim of. His mind drifted momentarily to her whipping his balls.

"I want a happy ending, baby," Brad pleaded like a child. "Promise me a happy ending."

"Oh Brad, this is going to be better than a happy ending." Brianna pushed her right breast up and licked her own nipple. "When we're done, it's going to be an all-new beginning." She winked at the hidden camera.

"I'm Mormon; but I've never been with another woman besides my wife."

Brianna held up a string of large anal beads. "So is it safe to say you've never had anything like these shoved up your ass?" She held her head back and lowered the string of beads into her mouth like a sword swallower then pulled them back out lubricated with her saliva.

"Fuck! Did you see that?" Danny shouted.

Iren slipped his hand down to his crotch. "Oh, I saw it."

"You know I can't stand reality television—but this is great!" Stan said more animated than usual.

Ray finished chewing some popcorn and swallowed. "Would you guys shut the fuck up! I'm trying to hear the dialogue."

"I can't believe the picture quality," commented Iren.

Danny was delighted that he noticed. "Luckily they had a satellite dish on the roof we were able to splice into. I've got the remote camera operators in a van across the street from her place."

Ray leaned forward in his chair. "Look at that, he's actually letting her shove those things up his ass," his voice shuddered with astonishment. "They're the size of pool balls."

"Ahhhhh, ahhhhhh," came out of Brad's drooling mouth as a low guttural sound.

Brianna tilted her head side-to-side and smiled. "Only fifteen or twenty more baby. You're taking it like a champ." She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing at the studio boss, as she shoved another giant anal bead up his ass.

"Ahhhhh, ahhhhh, ahhhhhh! I don't know how long I can handle the pressure!"

Brianna grabbed the hair on the back of his head and jerked his head back. "Just tell me when you're going to cum and I'll rip them out." She let go of his hair and slapped the back of his head before shoving two more of the proctologic spheres into his rectum.

"Oh yeah!" he screamed.

Iren turned to Stan. "Why did you put so much salt on the popcorn?"

"I like it salty," Stan said then tossed some popcorn into his mouth.

Iren bent his swelling fingers back and forth. "It's going to make me retain water."

Danny pointed at the screen. "No guy with that small a pecker should be the head of a studio."

"No wonder he's such an asshole," Ray said in full agreement. "Guys with small dicks seem to always get into power just long enough to really fuck things up. And why do they always buy Porsches?"

"You know, your girlfriend is hot," Iren said, enjoying Brianna more on the big screen than the time Stan let him hide in the bedroom closet and watch.

"Tell me about it," Stan began to laugh as Brianna took a break from shoving anal beads up Brad's ass and wrote, "I want to be pretty," across his back in red lipstick

"You should give her a raise for this," Ray said seriously.

Iren, Danny, and Stan all gave him dirty looks.

"Pass the popcorn would you?" Ray asked, ignoring them.

With only one bead and some chord hanging out of Brad's ass, Brianna laid down next to him face up and spread her legs wide. "I want you to fuck me good with those things up your ass!"

"I can't," groaned Brad, still bent over on all fours.

"Fuck me bitch!" Brianna shouted at him.

With considerable effort Brad maneuvered himself on top of Brianna and began to pump away.

Danny's on-the-fly director expertly switched from the overhead shot as the final bead disappeared up Brad's ass to a close-up shot from the two-way mirror behind the headboard.

"I'm almost there!" screamed Brad as his face contorted comically.

Huge laughter broke out in the screening room. Danny got up and tried his best to imitate Brad's facial expressions.

"Yeah, oh yeah!" Brad's face did a severe white man's overbite. "Ahhhhhhhhh!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! That feels so good." Brianna crossed her fingers behind Brad's back.

"Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah, you're such a stud!"

Brad's eyes crossed. "Now! Now! Now!"

Brianna uncrossed her fingers and reached down, grabbing the rip-chord. "Are you ready stud?"

"Ahhhhh! Yeah! I'm cumming!!!"

Iren, Ray, Danny, and Stan all cringed as Brianna yanked the anal beads from Brad's ass.

"Wow! "You know that's got to hurt!" shouted Danny.

Stan howled with laughter. "I've heard of letting one rip, but that was crazy!"

"I'm sticking to feet, I can tell you that," Iren said imagining what it would be like to suck on Brianna's toes.

Ray looked distastefully at the screen. "That might have been the most disgusting fucking thing I've ever seen. Must have felt good, though. Look at him—he can't even move!"

They all looked at the giant screen curiously as Brianna said, "Brad. Hey, Brad."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Really Good Morning

The next day, Stan Peters' black Rolls Royce Phantom pulled into the Peninsula Hotel as it always did. Every employee greeted him as usual as he made his way to his table. All could tell Stan Peters was in a better mood than usual—because he handed out hundreds instead of twenties that morning.

_It's another perfect day in beautiful Southern California. No wonder everybody wants to live here. Hey, why not? If the rest of the country would just move here, I could save a fortune on marketing costs. I made a movie that the studios hated. "It doesn't have one likeable character," they all bitched. But hard work, payoffs, and some sexual favors managed to get it released. Four hundred million dollars later, everybody who hated it loved it and they were all kissing my ass telling me that they had known it was a hit all along. So what do I know that they don't? The only thing people like more than their own good fortune is someone else's misfortune. Still better yet, someone else's reversal of good fortune. That's what I put on screen. My movies give the people what they want. Oh, and they always have a happy ending. It may be_ cliché _. But_ _if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs._

"Your eggs Mr. Peters."

Stan looked down at his breakfast and decided to eat before reading the trades—they deserved his complete attention.

After, what could only be described as, a joyful ride to the office Stan sat at his desk, delighted, as he read the _The Hollywood Reporter_. Iren and Ray sat on the other side of the desk in the gray mohair barrel chairs.

"'Brad Jones, dead at age forty-two.'" Stan read the headline with deeply felt emotion and then wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye before tossing the _Reporter_ to the desk. "Poor, untalented East Coast cocksucker. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

Ray finished picking something from his teeth with a solid gold toothpick. "Oh come on, even you have to feel a little bad?"

"Of course I feel bad." Stan turned the corners of his mouth down, creating a momentary mock frown. "Brad's untimely death ruined a perfectly good blackmail scheme."

"You're not kidding," Iren chuckled. "What are the chances of dying from an over stimulated prostrate?"

"Have to be a million to one," Stan said thoughtfully.

Ray brought his right hand to his forehead and gave it a rub. "A million to one is about the chance we have of getting "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho" into production now that we don't have Brad to blackmail."

Stan took it upon himself to cheer him up. "The glass is half full. We have Tom Cruise, Russell Crowe, and Nicole Kidman in a Stan Peters' film. Did I forget to mention that we cut the budget in half yesterday?"

Iren's eyes widened as he conceived Stan's point. "Except for the fact that none of them are Jewish, Brad might have been right about the cast changes."

"You have a point," Stan acknowledged.

Ray nodded his agreement. "Really, when you think about it, if it wasn't for Brad we would have never ground everybody's salaries, especially your rapper buddies."

Stan began to feel like they were treading in dangerous waters. "True, but you're forgetting one thing: a Stan Peters movie with no fucking profanity and characters that are redeemed at the end?" He laughed. "Not ever happening. No, fucking way."

"I'm glad the prick is dead," Iren said, getting back to their reality.

Ray shrugged. "Well fuck it, better him than us. But I do feel sorry for his wife, what's her name."

Iren thought for a second. "Isn't it Muffy or Minkie or something like that."

Stan was always frustrated with Iren's lack of ability to recall names. "Binkie. Her name is Binkie. You've met her twenty times and you don't remember her name?"

Iren smiled. "I'd like to bang her to be honest."

"Well that's a shocker," said Stan, reaching over to open the solid gold case on the right side of his desk. He removed a diamond-encrusted Mont Blanc and began rolling it over his knuckles.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" asked Ray.

"Ellie sent it over this morning. A one hundred and twenty thousand dollar pen." Stan examined the one of a kind writing instrument in his hand. "Wait 'til the krauts really find out what he did with their money."

Ray laughed. "Ellie will talk his way out of it."

"I was being serious," Iren pleaded. "I want to bang her the day of the funeral."

Stan gave Iren a hard look. "You disgust me, you know that?"

Iren's voice reverberated with a sense of confusion. "You're disgusted with me because I want to bang the wife of a guy your girlfriend killed with anal beads?"

Stan sighed heavily. "No you putz. I'm disgusted that you want to wait until the day of the funeral. I don't think they're planting him until next week."

"He's right," Ray agreed immediately, seeing Stan's point. "If you're not banging her by this weekend, every fucking guy in town is going to be calling her by the funeral."

"I see what you guys mean." Iren shook his head. "Is this town filled with a bunch of lowlifes or what? I'll take some flowers over to the house today."

"What are you going to do about Brianna and this whole negligent manslaughter charge?" asked Ray.

"I talked to the district attorney this morning." Stan smiled. "Luckily, his son is an aspiring director."

Ray had been wondering who they were going to stick with "Murder In Tinseltown". "So you got everything worked out?"

"It took some convincing. But he agreed to keep her locked up until after I marry Marle."

Iren pulled his glasses off and began wiping them against his shirt. "Do you think there's a script to be written? Girls in jail kind of thing or do you think she'll be too pissed off about the marriage to give up the rights?"

"I'm hoping she's so appreciative that I got her out of jail that she'll forget about me marrying someone else."

"What, are you crazy?" Ray waved his right hand signaling that the situation had already passed. "She's a woman, it's going to take at least a week for her to get over something like this and move on to another guy. And that'll be after she convinces at least three of her friends to dump their boyfriends so they can all hang out on Saturday nights. And a year from now, she'll be fucking you on the side again anyway."

Stan's mood became pensive for a moment. "I can't believe I have to get married."

"Don't do it," Iren urged. "Take it from a married guy, don't fucking do it."

"That's how we get the money, Bozo." Stan threw his hands up in the air, "I have to marry her."

Ray nodded his agreement. "Especially now that we're back in limbo at the studio." He flashed a sarcastic smile. "Anal beads. What a great fucking idea that turned out to be."

"Actually, we might have just given new meaning to pulling one out of your ass," Danny said, walking into Stan's office with a noticeable bounce in his step. "Or in this case, someone else's ass."

Stan's eyes locked on Danny as he stood between where Ray and Iren were seated. "Do I detect good news?" His voice trailed up on the word "news".

Danny smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Well let's just say the news conference starts in ten seconds." Danny picked up the remote control from the Buccellati silver table between Ray and Iren. "May I?"

Stan held his hand out like a king granting permission. "Please do."

"This better be fucking good," Ray grumbled. "Remember what happened the last time we all sat around watching one of Danny's presentations."

"Could you just shut the fuck up please?" Stan looked from Ray to Danny. "I liked the last show, surprise ending and all."

Iren laughed. "You are hilarious. You know that, right?"

Stan looked from Iren to Ray. "I don't know what the fuck is the matter with you two today."

"He doesn't know what's wrong with us?" Ray asked Iren. "It's not like someone died or something. Oh they did."

Stan looked from Iren to Danny. "He talks just to hear himself. You guys do know that?"

Danny pointed the remote and pressed the button that lowered the sixty-inch plasma from the ceiling to its spot fifteen feet in front of Stan's desk. All of their eyes were glued on the formally dressed gentleman at the podium.

"We now join the news conference in progress," the faceless voice of television announced.

The formally dressed gentleman at the podium waited for the last of the reporters to fall into place. The lights seemed to reflect off of his silver hair. The deep lines around his mouth were indicative of a man of great speaking stature. Or, at least they caught the light in such a way that it made his words seem more important than they were. "It is with great sadness that we extend our condolences to Brad's family, especially to his wife Binkie."

"I'll be extending her more than condolences," Iren said to the TV.

"Brad's tenure as studio boss was short." The studio's spokesman paused for dramatic effect. Cameras flashed around the room.

"Almost as short as his dick," Danny commented with a chuckle.

"Twelve hours too long for me," added Stan.

The spokesman continued with not a dry eye in the room. "But over the years we all learned so much from him."

"Like don't shove beads the size of pool balls up your ass," Ray contributed.

"But even in sadness, there is great hope. Although, he has suffered his own loss of a loved one recently, Warren Cort has accepted the board's unanimous decision to promote him to head of the studio. Warren will now say a few words and take some of your questions." The formally dressed silver haired studio spokesman bowed to the new head of the studio as he walked up to the podium and then shook his hand before exiting stage right.

Danny smiled, his face actually aglow knowing that all eyes were upon him. "That's what I'm talking about!" he said enthusiastically to Stan.

Stan looked from Danny back to the plasma just to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. "Un-fucking believable!" Stan stared at Danny. "This is just the best day ever."

Ray and Iren toasted each other with their latte cups.

"Guy used to work in our mail room." Ray held his latte up towards Stan, "Now he runs a fucking studio."

"It's a beautiful thing." Stan looked at the diamond Mont Blanc in his hand, thinking he really did deserve so much good fortune.

Danny pointed at the plasma. "And look, he's still wearing the suit I lent him yesterday."

Warren was a whole different man than he had been the day before. He began somberly. "I'd like to offer my condolences to Binkie and the rest of the family.

Ray looked at Iren. "Now that they're both single, maybe they should hook up?"

Iren's eyebrowless brow raised at the distressful thought. "I've got first dibbs."

Stan pointed the Mont Blanc at the plasma. "I'm trying to listen."

Warren continued. "This is a great studio, with a great tradition to live up to and we will live up to that tradition. We will do it with the great moviemakers that we are fortunate to be in business with. One of whom I would like to take a minute to discuss. As my first action as head of this studio, I am offering Stan Peters a ten-year deal to make any movie he desires. Stan and moviemakers like him are the backbone of this business."

Stan looked at Danny lovingly.

Danny smiled. "I wrote that part."

"I like it." Stan tapped the side of his head with the Mont Blanc. "The backbone—that's good."

"Should have called him the cockbone of the business," Iren snickered.

"That's what I was giving your momma last night," Stan shot back.

Warren seemed to look right through the camera into Stan's office—where just the day before he had sat, covered in the blood and brain matter of his cheating bitch wife and her fag decorator lover. "With strategic alliances like Studio/Peters, I have no doubt that we will continue to prosper even during the most challenging of times. Because it is during these times that you find out who your friends really are." Warren smiled slightly at the camera.

Danny clicked the button on the remote control and the plasma magically retracted back up into the ceiling. "Because it's times like these you really find out who your friends are," he repeated.

"The best mail boy we ever had, in retrospect," Stan said with deep respect for himself and his hiring choices.

"Lucky thing he killed the wife and her fag boyfriend or we could have been completely screwed," observed Ray.

"What do we do with "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho"?" asked Iren, feeling like life was once again the dream that it should be.

Stan looked at the boys—time to get back to business. "Keep the new cast, go back to the old script and bill the studio for two rewrites."

"How much?" asked Iren, Ray, and Danny simultaneously.

"A million each." Stan smiled. "Think of it as Brad's going away present." Stan pointed the Mont Blanc at Iren. "And don't forget to get his old lady flowers if you plan on banging her." Stan thought for a moment. "Oh, and add a wedding scene to "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho" that I can bill my up-coming unhappy occasion to."

"Speaking of that," Danny handed Stan a piece of paper. "Here's the husband's address. Given the amount of money that's at stake, you should probably talk to him man to man...Well man to former man...You know what I mean."

Stan looked at the address. "Can you imagine what this loser must look like?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Papers

Stan usually spent just two weeks a year at his Sunset Island estate in Miami. He enjoyed the boating there but the humidity simply did not agree with his Southern California weather acclimation. The compound's main residence, a 16,000-foot Mediterranean, was built to resemble a home he had been a guest at while visiting Siena. Stan stood out on the balcony of the master suite and gazed upon the water. His 110-foot Queensland bobbed up and down gently from the wake of a passing boat. Stan was contemplating taking a walk down to the dock when the phone rang.

"Meet me at Velvet. I'll be at the bar," said the surprisingly feminine voice.

"What time?" asked Stan, wanting to get the unpleasant business of Marle's divorce behind him as quickly as possible.

"I'm sure you'll want to freshen-up. Let's say 10:00."

"I'll see you there."

Freshen-up? Is he...is she...crazy. I just want to get this over with. With my luck, I'll run into someone I know. Fancy running into you here, Jim. This is my friend Maxine formerly known as Maxwell. What a fucking nightmare. Dread...is the word I'm looking for.

Velvet was one of many clubs that lined Collins Avenue, the popular South Beach street. Stan remembered when South Beach was nothing more than a retirement village filled with old Jews. "The Lord's waiting room" they used to call it...the wait was over. The old folks were gone, replaced by young people who drank, danced, and did drugs all night long before fucking—then sunbathing nude on the pristine white sand beaches.

"I'll leave it up front," said the valet, a Caucasian kid.

Stan handed him the keys to his white Rolls Royce Phantom—his Miami car. "How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen, sir."

"And why are you parking cars?" Stan asked drawing out "And" so it sounded like, "Annnd." Clearly making it understood that he didn't approve.

"I'm working my way through college, sir. I have class all day. This was the only job I could get at night."

Stan shook his head...As if he didn't have enough to think about...Then he handed the kid his business card. "Call my office tomorrow and tell my secretary, Marle, I said to give you a full scholarship to whatever school you want to go to." Stan reached into his pocket again and pulled out a wad of hundreds. "Look here's a few grand to hold you over until you get the paperwork done with Marle."

The kid looked at the business card and money in the palm of his hand. "Mr. Peters, I don't know what to say. Nobody has ever done anything like this for me."

Stan nodded. "Because you're white. Oh, and let me guess, your parents are hard- working middleclass people?"

The kid's chin drooped toward his chest. "They would help me if they could."

"I know." Stan put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "I'm giving you a break kid. Study your ass off and get out into the world and make a lot of money. The middleclass dream is gone—you need to make it big."

Stan walked toward the deep burgundy curtains. The bouncer that stood in front held up his hand. "I.D. please."

"You're kidding right?"

The bouncer smiled. "Lots of money and Academy Awards don't mean shit to me. I'll need to see your I.D."

"I really don't have time for this, big guy. But because I'm feeling benevolent, I'll take a moment and enlighten you."

The bouncer clasped his right hand tightly over his left in front of his massive body. "Please do," he said with a grin and a nod. He had obviously had many such confrontations—and enjoyed them all.

"Whoever owns this little place hired you to do a job. Your job, I'm sure, has several responsibilities—none of which are asking someone that is obviously forty-years- old for his I.D. But you insist on doing so because you want to feel important. In fact, you want to feel more important than me. The problem is, you're not. And the reason you're not isn't because you're a slab of beef that gets paid to stand at a fucking door all night. It's honest work and I appreciate that. The reason you're not as important as I am is that you don't love yourself for who you are. And you don't respect people who have accomplished more in life than you have. So, here we are. You can move out of the way or I can show you my I.D., buy this place tomorrow, and fire you."

"You would actually buy this place just to fire me?" asked the bouncer, realizing he had made an egregious mistake.

"And everywhere else you ever try to work." Stan thought of Nelson Ballsworth sitting in his study—prepared to buy every studio in Hollywood if need be to enforce his will. "Big guy, there's always someone bigger than you. Trust me, I know...It pays to kill people with kindness."

_Or anal beads, but that's a whole different matter_.

The bouncer stepped aside. "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Peters."

Stan handed him a hundred, because he believed in positive reinforcement and headed for the bar.

Wow! Look at all these hot chicks. And I'm meeting a guy that had his dick snipped off. What a waste of a night. Two billion dollars fuck head. Did you forget about that?

"What can I get you?" asked the bartender.

Stan smiled. "Blue Label, double, straight up."

"I like it straight up," said the gorgeous brunette seated at the bar. She licked her lips and took a sip of her martini.

"Well then, your next one should be on me," Stan said suggestively.

"Where are you from, sexy man? You don't look like a local."

"I'm from L.A. Born and raised." Stan raised his glass. "To you, beautiful." He downed the double with one gulp. "Two more please. One for me and one for the lady."

"What brings you to Miami?"

"My future wife's husband, to be honest."

"That sounds intriguing."

"If you're intrigued by men who wear dresses. He had a sex change...I just came to get him to sign some paperwork."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know. I imagine ugly. I've never seen one of these jobs that came out right. If you want to do me a favor, keep your eyes peeled for a woman that looks like Sasquatch."

"I'll do you a favor sexy. Why don't you let me take a look at those papers?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I'm Marle's husband Max."

"You're Sasquatch? C'mon, you're fucking with me." Stan asked reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve the papers just in case.

"Call me Yeti, charmer. It turns me on...Of course I'm her husband you putz."

"You know you're fucking hot—for a guy."

Max nodded as he took the papers. "Thanks, but I'm not a guy. I'm all woman."

Stan looked down at Max's crotch. "All?"

Max nodded as he read the divorce documents. "All." He handed the papers back to Stan. "You could marry anybody you want. Why marry Marle?"

"None of your fucking business, Max."

"No one would marry her if there wasn't money involved. And I could use some money."

"Stealing all the money from the house wasn't enough?"

Max waved his hand down the length of his body. "Do you know what this cost? And I think we both agree I got my money's worth."

Stan had to agree—so there was no point in arguing. "How much do you want?"

Max leaned forward, bringing his luscious red lips a fraction of an inch from Stan's right ear. "One million dollars."

Stan pushed Max back gently. "Sweetheart, if I tell Marle where you're at, she'll come after you for child support and alimony—and my lawyers will make sure she gets it. I'll give you five hundred grand."

"What else will you give me," asked Max, his hand coming to rest on Stan's crotch.

Stan pulled Max's hand from his balls gingerly. "Oh Max, you've got to be kidding?"

Max's lips tightened into a pout. "You'd rather have Marle than me? We go back to my place or you can tell her to chase me for the money."

"You drive a hard bargain, Max." Stan held up his glass for a moment before tossing back the double shot.

"Stan, the hard part is all up to you." Max tossed back his double shot. "Shall we?"

Stan dropped a hundred onto the bar. "Let's go."

This fucking humidity is killing me.

Stan dripped with sweat as he penetrated Max, amazed at how good a manmade vagina could feel. "I'm going to cum, Max!"

"Cum baby. I want you to cum."

"Oh yeah, oh yeah!" Stan rested on his elbows for a moment before sliding off to the side.

"That was great! Marle is a lucky girl to have you," Max said, rolling over to his side so he could look at his new lover.

"Thanks, Max. You're not so bad yourself...for a man."

Max smiled. "You know I'm not a man," Max laughed. "You know better than anybody." There was moment of silence. "Lover, is there anything you won't do to get what you want?"

Stan rolled over to his side and looked down the length of Max's perfect female body. "I would have given you a million if I had to."

Max ran his hand through Stan's hair. "I would have done it for free just to know you had to fuck me to get what you wanted."

Stan looked at Max thoughtfully. "You devious bitch. You know I could probably use a person like you at Peters Entertainment."

Max smiled happily.

"But don't you ever tell Marle who you really are," Stan warned sternly.

"I promise," whispered a content Max.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

One Month Later

Stan lay in bed with Marle in the plush tropical suite of the exotic hotel of her honeymoon dreams. He looked at her as she slept and thought to himself that it sucked to be married. But at least he had been forced to marry someone cute, especially when she was asleep and not talking. The peaceful thought only lasted a couple of seconds longer.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," Marle said lovingly as she opened her eyes. She kissed Stan's muscular chest and gazed happily at the twelve-carat diamond on her finger. It was so big Stan had to bill it to three different projects.

"Good morning, Mrs. Peters," Stan answered back lovingly but with considerable stress in his voice.

"What's wrong?" asked Marle.

"Nothing's wrong," Stan said not so convincingly. He wondered how women could detect even the slightest vibration that might not be one of complete goodwill and generosity toward them. He looked at the top of her head wondering if there weren't some type of antenna at work.

"I can hear it in your voice something's wrong." She paused. "And stop looking at me like I've got horns coming out of my head."

Antenna like an insect, not horns. Although the devil has horns.

"It's just this whole marriage thing. It's so demanding, I mean I really never imagined that it was this much work."

She propped herself up slightly so she could look him in the face. "You shmuck, I can't believe you just said that."

Stan gave a resigned smile. "Of course you don't understand, you're a woman."

"We got married yesterday," Marle said to him with no sympathy for his situation. "Twelve hours! We've been married twelve hours."

"I don't think I can do this," Stan said out loud but also silently begging for help. There was none coming.

Marle's eyes became slits like they always did when she was determined to get her way. "Oh you're going to do this all right. You're going to do this for the rest of your life. Every day, forever and ever. I love you. But if you even think of pulling that scummy Hollywood producer shit on me, I'll rat you out to the Rabbis, the Teamsters, the drug cartels, and the Pope. And the Pope is already mad at you."

Stan smiled, acknowledging that he did love her. She smiled back as he rolled over on top of her and began kissing her neck.

"Get off of me you animal!" she said unconvincingly.

"Are you guys fighting already?" asked Marle's three-year-old daughter Taylor as she climbed on top of Stan, who was on top of Marle.

Stan slid off to the side, grabbed Taylor and held her above him like he was bench-pressing her. "Well, it is after nine," he said looking into the beautiful laughing face of the precocious three-year-old. Stan couldn't help but think that kids might just make getting married partially worth all the trouble.

"You shouldn't fight on your honeymoon," Taylor said matter-of-factly.

"Well we weren't exactly fighting. Your mom was just in the middle of blackmailing me."

Taylor pointed at him. "She learned from the best."

Stan smiled, amazed that at three she already knew how to flatter someone. "She certainly did," he agreed.

"Can I have a puppy?" she asked, knowing that the words "the best" could get just about anything out of her new daddy.

"Sure. Anything else?" Stan asked happily, lowering her down so she was now sitting to his right while her mom regained her perch on his chest.

Taylor nodded. "I want to star in your next movie and I want my own trailer."

Stan looked at Marle. "This is forever?"

Marle smiled. "And ever and ever."

Stan turned his head back to Taylor. "Alright, one movie and that's it. Then you're going to school like other kids...Unless it's a really big hit. If it is, we'll have to talk."

Taylor jumped on top of Stan and gave him a big hug. "Thank you!" She sat back up. Her expression was very serious. "And I want my own clothing line."

Stan looked back to Marle. "Well this morning is off to a hell of a start."

"You don't know the half of it!" shouted Ray from the doorway.

Stan raised his head from the pillow and stared at the bizarre image of Ray and Iren walking into the room still partially dressed as Hasidic Jews, and completely tanked from a hard night of partying. Ray held up _The Hollywood Reporter_.

Iren took a swig of Scotch from the bottle of Blue Label he had in his hand. "Wait until you hear this," he said holding the bottle toward Stan who sat up in bed with his new, mandatory two billion dollar family.

Stan took the bottle, held it to his lips, and took a large gulp. He cleared his burning throat. "It better be good news."

101

