Hollywood Blows Part 2 / Sequels Vs Prequels by John Patrick Robbins

The ride over to Monument studios was a silent affair.
Being that Simon felt like death warmed over and largely wanted to kill Frank.

And as they sat there waiting for Mrs Phelps to arrive, Frank couldn't resist twisting the knife at least just a tad.

“So can I get you two gentlemen anything while you wait?”
The secretary asked.

“Hey sweetheart, any chance you could get us two bloody Marys?" 

 My agent here really likes a little hair of the dog if you know what I mean.”

Simon just shot Frank a look of pure disdain hidden behind a pair of borrowed sunglasses.

“Hey sweetheart don't be fooled by his silent act, this guys a total wildman I mean you should have seen him last night .”

“I’m sure Mr Murphy , well sir feel free to help yourself to the bar over in the corner Mrs Phelps should be with you shortly.”

The secretary said and quickly made her exit as if second hand hangovers were catching.

“Well she was friendly, I do believe I will enjoy that open bar. Hey kid, what are you having?”

“Dude are you trying to get us kicked out of here! This isn't a goddamn bar asshole !”

“Wow so aggressive, hey you think that chick has an instagram? I should send her a friend’s request. I mean sure she left like she was grabbing a quick ticket off the Titanic and all. 
But I really think we had some chemistry.” 

Simon put his head on the table.
“You don't have an instagram, you asshole.”

“True that, but I just figured being I have your password and all Being I sent your dick pic all over the net, maybe I’d do a little networking. I mean it's the least I could do.”

Frank said as he sat down next to his very hungover agent.
As he placed a bloody Mary in front of him.

The smell of the vodka, damn near made Simon want to hurl all over the glass top table.
As bad as Simon felt he wondered how anyone could bear this feeling on a regular basis. Let alone his seldom sober client  who although he drank far more than himself the previous night seemed to show little to no effects.

“Hey dude, look at this shit, people really seem to love your dick next to the Eiffel tower.”

“Give me my damn phone you fucking klepto, and this isn’t my dick it’s your’s, you fucking bastard!"
Simon snapped as he shoved his phone into his pocket.

“Hey how would you know thats my dick, I mean that's kind of strange wouldn't you say young sir?”

“Because you sent me a video of you with that girl I had just started dating.”

“Hell I totally forgot about that, how are you and Wendy doing?”

“She canceled out on a date saying she was sick. And instead went and blew my client! So yeah we're not on speaking terms!”

Frank busted up laughing and kicked backed his cocktail.
“Ain’t love grand kid, hey she really didn't appreciate you. I mean  sure, she gave great head. But dude,  you need someone who truly appreciates you and doesn't sleep around for some spare change or film these precious moments and share them with you.”

“You sent me the video you dick!”

Finally just then Mrs Stacey Phelps entered the room.
“Gentlemen I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Glad to see you made yourselves at home.”

Mrs Phelps said as she took her seat.

“Mr Murphy, I have to say I really love your book. Honestly you had me cracked up so many times.”

It was always good for Frank to hear his words connect, even if it was total bullshit . Being this was coming from the same studio executive that brought us superhero and talking car movies.

I mean if you tried to dive into this deep intellectual film studios pool.

You would probably snap your neck.
But Frank was at least mildly amused by the fact she had what looked like a straight from book store copy of his most recent scribblings.

She was on the hunt for something with the one thing all these high dollar films lacked. Substance and some balls and Frank knew it.
This was a dance to get the other in the sack and although he knew Simon had his best interests at heart. These were truly uncharted waters for them both.

“Mr Murphy we want this but there are some issues.”

“Aren't there always, so what are the issues Mrs Phelps.”

“Please call me Stacey, and well honestly Frank I mean maybe if we could tone down some of the womanizing. I was thinking maybe change it a bit, does the writer have to be based in the South? Why can't he be from New York? Or even on the West Coast.”

Frank slightly laughed getting up to mix himself another drink.
He held up his glass.

“Anyone care for a refill?”

“No but please help yourself,'' Stacey quickly replied.

Stacey leaned towards Simon.

“Tell me, does your client always hit the sauce, so heavy this early in the day?”

“You have to forgive him. I think he’s just a bit nervous.”

Simon was fighting his urge to start puking all over again and he wasn't even sure why.
And although he knew there was nothing he could do to keep his client from screwing this up, still he was determined to try.

And if he could resist his urge to puke in the garbage can he figured that might just help his odds.

“So Stacey are there any other issues?”

Frank asked as he joined them both with his fresh cocktail in hand.

“Well I’m glad you asked, I mean I was thinking. What if we changed direction and focussed in on the relationships between the writer and his young editor? I mean the LBGTQ market is hot right now.”

“You know Stacey, you really have a point but I think the real tensions lie between these Scott and Ryan characters. I mean you can cut the tension with a knife.”


Stacey lit up like a Christmas tree as even though stone cold sober she was clearly drunk on something.

 
“I am loving this but what if it was a love triangle between all of them.”

Frank could sense Simon's blood boiling because even though he was having fun with this clearly delusional woman.
Simon knew his client like the back of his hand and knew he would eventually screw this up on purpose.

“You know Stacey,  I think it makes as much sense as doing a big budget version of Flipper and instead of using an actual dolphin casting Adam Sandler instead.”

The women looked at Frank with a sense of shock.

“Wait who told you about that? Have you been talking to Disney I swear I'll match whatever they offered.”

Now it was Frank and Simon who were both silent.
The discussion went on for awhile and as Frank grew annoyed as their host, with his refusal to budge of raping his story and basically being paid off to use it in title only.

“Mr Murphy, this is a good deal we can both end up making some real money from this.”

Frank didn't bother to reply; he simply stood up and reached in his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table to which Stacey Phelps looked at him strangely.

“You don't owe me for the drinks Frank, let's just take a break on this. Why don't we meet tomorrow?”

Frank just looked at the executive with a sense of disgust and replied.

“I’m curious, in that whole Flipper film, does Adam actually get caught in a tuna net and killed?”

“Jesus Christ! Of course he doesn't you loon!”

“Shit well that sucks. I thought kids movies were all about happy endings. Oh well, films aren't what they used to be that's for sure. Well my dear, if ever you need someone to write that scene drop me a line, otherwise au revoir it's been interesting.”

Frank was out the door and almost to the elevator before Simon caught up with him.

“You fucking dick! What was that man?"

"C’mon at least let's try to hear what she has to say tomorrow.They really want the rights to this book man”

“Yeah you write books kid?”

“No but-”

“Then shut the fuck up! And book us the first plane out of this asylum. before over inflated egos and the weight of million dollar mansions causes this fucker to fall into the ocean.”

Simon knew the argument was pointless but he was far too hungover to press it. He turned his phone's notifications on and the damn thing was going off like crazy.

“Jesus dude, seems you're really popular.” 

Simon looked at the notification on his newly installed Grinder app.
It appeared Antwon, was single and looking to more than mingle in the studios restroom.

Frank just looked at his best friend and agent with a shit eating grin.
Sometimes Simon  had to question why he hadn't become an accountant instead.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review  and Black Shamrock Magazine.  His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine,  The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, 1870 Magazine, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review , Herion Love Songs, Romingos Porch and Schlock Magazine. 

His work is always unfiltered