An old friend hooked me up with some Hollywood people a while back. To someone my age, a while back can mean last week or 15 years ago because once the brain becomes full of memories it does what Microsoft's Defragger does. It clumps things together to make room. So anyway I had a ball. Stepped in shit. Came away smelling like a rose. These cliches my mind remembers but not where the car keys are at any particular point in time because the chaos theory demands it be so. Ever since I was wee and frail the one thing I could do well was mimic. Dialogue became easy because all I had to do was assume the persona of a character and write what he or she sounded like. Made a ton and a half of money script doctoring and sold several longasswinded novels to production company's that then went ahead and made things like She Spies seem Shakespearian. Now, there are some terrific writers afloat. Who will never make enough money from their work to buy a decent used car because foot in the door supercedes brilliance and if you don't know that then you don't understand how folks like Bill Clinton became famous. So frig it, one of my old and decrepit works was dusted off and is gathering interest. Not that I'd ever wish working with producers or actors or islamic terrorists to anyone, mind you. The average street walker has more honor and pride of ownership.
Petey and Joey were two young men trying to make a halfass buck in the big city when a seemingly simple deal went down very, very wrong. Asked to stop by a big shots residence and help him move some furniture, they walk into a murder scene and guess who gets chased for the next 300 pages around the Mullbery Street bush as both the mob and the cops are interested in a pound of flesh.
Write a long enough laundry list and if the right people stumble across it as a vehicle for hot actors and you are gold. Be dumb enough to try and mix politics, religion, spookyass goings on, Cosa Nostra, and more, into something remotely coherant and funny and scary then give up on it because the actors you were doing it for became as cold as Hilary Clinton's twizzle, THEN have some new boys ask for a resurrection because to them it seems campy and fun. But if you don't need the money then only go ahead with the deal if they buy the fucking thing outright and leave you alone because working with slugs means you'll eventually develop a slime trail.
I might do it. I'd kill them outright and get away with it if the piss-me-off factor went dead-red because I'm a disabled veteran of two and half decades of war and can plead temporary insanity. Wasting Hollywooders means next to nothing if a smartass shyster shows a jury the pics of not one but two Presidents dropping medals on your shoes. I'd of course have to go back and delete this, and that means all of you are sworn to secrecy, so don't make hard copies.
Just joking. Do anything you want just help me find the keys.
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