The plane ride in, was largely a blur.
As Frank had slept through most of it.
The pills and booze largely had something to do with that.
Simon played games on his phone and tried not to freak out.
Because he was forced to be around other human beings.
Give him numbers, contracts and a steady internet connection the kid was aces.
Take him and cast him into humanity, or heaven forbid get him around the opposite sex.
Then you were truly fucked.
Frank finally was coming to life by the time they were getting out of the elevator heading towards their rooms.
“Well Slapnuts see you tomorrow, try not to jerk off too much. Gonna need those beady eyes of yours to look over the numbers.”
“Jesus christ dude!What are you heading to the bar already?”
“Kid, just give me my room key and cut the shit.”
Simon just stood at the door staring oddly at Frank.
“Dude this is our room.”
“What the fuck you prick! You're telling me you didn't book us separate rooms.
What are we in the Goddamned boy scouts!”
“Chill out man we are only here for one night besides this place is really expensive.”
“Who gives a shit? It’s on the studios dime you stingy bastard!”
“No, the plane ride was on the studio, I figured we would look less desperate if we footed or our own accommodations.”
“So basically this is on my fucking dime and still you couldn't get two fucking rooms you dumbass?”
“I mean it’s got two beds man like seriously it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Oh well now I'm really hurt, being I was hoping to snuggle with you tonight you mental reject.”
Frank said as he pushed past Simon going into the room.
Frank was beyond pissed, it was bad enough interrupting his drinking schedule.
To let alone be stuck in a room with his socially challenged agent for the night.
But he knew the argument was pointless. Frank was in the viper's nest so to speak the world of shit ideas. And bigger egos than any lit scene he had ever encountered.
Savage studios wanted to purchase the rights to Drunks Like Us, and better yet they wanted Frank to somehow write the screenplay.
He knew they were desperate for something different. But he couldn't shake the fact that it was this very same cesspool that killed most writers' books.
They made a habit of neutering great novels and when you took the grit away.
From what Frank did, you took the heart and soul of his work.
Of course as they say, money talks and the numbers were enough to make most sell their souls.
The nerves were getting the best of him so as always Frank decided to have a few drinks from the mini bar.
“Dude those things really cost, it’s cheaper to just go grab a bottle.”
“Well being it’s not on your tab, drink up asshole.”
Frank said, as he tossed two shot bottles of vodka and a sprite.
Which Simon failed to catch so they bounced off the bed falling to the floor.
Frank cracked up on just how uncoordinated his friend and agent was.
“Dude don't you even have a fucking pair shorts to lounge around in?”
Simon looked down.
"I’m wearing boxers for fucks sake, you grouchy bastard!”
“Yeah well find some shorts because your special purpose is showing, there you jerk.”
Frank cleaned out the mini bar as the drinking light was officially on.
And as the drinks flowed and the laughs ensued the night quickly approached.
Frank went and sat out on the balcony watching the insanity that is Los Angeles.
It was alive but in a hollow and empty sense.
Simon would be incredibly hungover from tonight on top of being jet lagged.
It wasn't Franks job to torture his mentally incompetent agent, but it was truly a perk.
Frank had to admit he loved the view and did entertain the idea of heading out to see the town.
But then again this wasn't his territory.
He missed the sounds of the ocean and total chaos that was a good night in Kill Devil Hills.
Home was back where the sand met the waves and the drinks never ceased.
Tomorrow would be different to say the least.
Frank finished off his drink and went back inside to find Simon, passed out draped across his bed and his phone upon the floor.
Frank quickly picked it up and walked off to the restroom. Amateurs never learn.
Never pass out first.
The morning came along way too quickly.
Simon’s head was spinning and it was all he could do, to make it into the restroom and puke.
Why in the fuck had he decided to match drinks with Frank.
Of course it was better than having him bitch the whole time because he wouldn't.
Simon puked again for good measure, brushed his teeth and went to check the time.
And begin the struggle it was to wake his seldom sober client.
Simon checked his phone and was shocked to see his background screen pic had been changed.
And apparently he had a new Grinder account now attached to his phone.
With some guys just dying to meet him.
But the icing on the proverbial cake was that charming background screen.
With a dick standing at full attention with a white balloon over it of course reading.
Welcome To L.A. Slapnuts!
Simon just looked at his client who surprisingly was already awake with a huge shit eating grin upon his face.
Simon had to question what he had ever done to deserve such a nutcase client like Frank Murphy.
But he thanked the Lord, there was only one of him.
And wished on this day where he felt like death warmed over. He had become an investment banker instead.
John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review. His work has been published in.
Punk Noir Magazine, The Mojave River Review, Piker Press, San Pedro River Review, The Blue Nib, Sacred Chickens, 1870 Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, San Antonio Review.
His work is always unfiltered.
