Chaz Blazer, elite Hollywood executive and part-time volunteer whaler, strode confidently into the immense office, slapped a sheaf of papers down on the behemoth desk in front of him, and flopped casually into a bizarre, tight little oval that he assumed was supposed to be a chair.
"Baby, honey, sweetheart, dumpling, darling, moonpie: I have brought you gifts, because you're so fucking sexy I feel compelled to give you things for reasons that are unclear to me. They're scripts! My assistant's intern says his roommate read them and they're pretty OK!" Chaz belted out happily.
There was no response from the oddly shaped studio head behind the desk.
"Geoff, hey, you all right?"
With a wracking, shuddering gasp Geoff started in his chair, his limbs flailing brokenly, "Chaz! Baby! I think I actually just died for a second there! God, that was fantastic! While dissipating into the sacred aether I realized life was fleeting and precious and all that bullshit, so let's get moving here: What am I looking at?" Geoff rifled through the reams of paper in front of him.
"They sent me back when I pulled out my dick and tried to fuck her halo. Prudes, man! It's like Utah up there."
"Hey, you're a man of action, baby. I understand," Chaz said. "Man of action! Action man! Shit, I'm on it already. Buzz Janice: Have her call the production department and greenlight something called Action Man. I honestly don't care what."
"Done! Janice!" Geoff leaned over to depress the intercom button, his torso oddly stiff. "Contact production. Tell them two words: Green light. And two more words: Man Action."
"Sir? I... is there some explanation there?" The tinny voice responded.
"GODDAMMIT JANICE!" Geoff's face flushed red, veins bulged out unnaturally on his botoxed forehead. "I have had men killed with fewer words than I've just given you!"
"Oh hey, are we threatening?" Chaz chimed in. "Tell her she should phone a priest and set up an appointment to thank God she's still got ears to hear you."
"Did you hear that, Janice?" Geoff hollered into the smooth, white oval hump that housed his desk iPhone.
"You goddamn pretend I said that!" Geoff's flailed his arms in fury, though they seemed inexplicably restrained of their natural orbits.
"I will, sir."
"Now, about these scripts: I hear they're fantastic; I am not reading them," Geoff fastened Chaz with a serious stare.
"Good lord, of course not! I don't even think I can read anymore. Ever since I blacked out in the bathrooms at Beso and woke up next to that crying gypsy woman, I can only hear letters as notes of music."
"I think this is the new Step Up script."
"Ha ha, fantastic, Chaz! Gypsy literacy curses!"
"Well, either that or I had her fuck me in a place that permanently deformed the language center of my brain. Either way is good. It killed some time."
"You're jaded and horrible and diseased and I am rewarding you for it! Janice!" Geoff screeched into the intercom. "Gypsy literacy curses! Buy Chaz a fucking house for me."
"And burn it down," Chaz added blithely.
"AND IMMEDIATELY BURN THAT MOTHERFUCKER TO THE GROUND. Are we understood?!"
"Absolutely, sir. Another Turn and Burn for Mr. Blazer. Right away."
"So give me the gist on these," Geoff continued, scattering the papers spitefully throughout the air.
"Right-o: First up, a heartwrenching story of love and loss. It's about a jaded expatriate meeting and falling in love with a desperate woman in the heart of war-torn Africa in the late 1930s."
"I'm not...unintrigued. What is this a remake of?"
"It's ah..." Chaz flipped to the remake credits. He sat speechless, his mouth agape, "there's nothing here!"
"I'm not following you. What are you saying?" Geoff attempted to thrust himself upward from his chair using only his arm muscles. Several rapid, awkward flops later, and he was on his feet.
"It's not a remake of anything!"
"Insanity! Blackhearted insanity! Where did this idea come from then? Thin fucking air?! The son of a bitch who wrote this is either a thief or a magician, and I will not abide witchcraft. Next!"
"A taxi driver and a young prostitute try to make a meaningful connection amidst the filth and decadence of modern-day New York City."
"Prostitutes! Blue collar workers! Fantastic!" Geoff stood over the torn remains of the first script, very carefully angling the urine stream to avoid any splashback on his loafers.
"There's just one problem," Chaz shuffled and spun, trying to arrange himself on the uncomfortable oval.
"It makes no mention whatsoever of 3D."
"What?!" Geoff spun in shock, the urine stream arcing across his office.
"I checked: Nothing. No mention of 3D technology anywhere."
"Well I'll be a son of a motherfucker," Geoff whistled appreciatively. "That is balls. I like balls! Greenlight that bastard, and just do the 3D in post production. And really make sure that process darkens it up; get that grit in there."
Pictured at 500 percent brightness.
"This next one is gold: A young farm boy discovers he has mystical powers and takes on a giant evil empire... in space! It's even got a twist ending: Turns out the villain is the kid's father." Chaz shifted again in the oval. He was now partially upside down and half diagonal.
"Eh, I see two problems: First, the geeks are over. Just not profitable. Did you see that Scott Pilgrim shit?"
"No..." Though the blood was pooling in one side of his face, and a sharp bit was stabbing into a nerve cluster in his shoulder that caused one arm to spin continuously, Chaz had finally gotten comfortable.
"Exactly! And you were the goddamn producer!"
"Jesus. Benzodiazepine is a hell of a drug," Chaz noted, awed at the realization.
"And furthermore, while that might've passed for a plot twist in the bad old days, did you read the ending of Shyamalan's latest? Turns out every single character is the devil! Fuckin' everybody! This 'I'm your father' crap won't even play in the sticks. New twist: The kid is his own father. At the end he gives birth to himself and the baby kills him."
"Then the kid bangs the sister and the monkey-guy was the robot the whole time."
"Bam! Twisted!" Chaz's arm-circles had grown concentrically larger until he eventually found he was slapping himself in the cheek with his own hand. He finally gave in and stood up. "This is the worst goddamn chair I have ever sat in."
"Chair? What? No! Ha ha, I was wondering why you were gyrating on my mini-bar."
"Well, where's the chair then?"
"Chairs are archaic! They're done in this town! It's all wire-work now," Geoff said, motioning to the ceiling where, sure enough, several ornate harnesses attached to pulley systems sat inches above Chaz's head. A naked Asian teenager hung suspended in one. She spun slowly clockwise, reached the end of her momentum, and began to rotate back. She waved shyly. "Next script!"
"This one's about a soldier sent on a special mission to kill a renegade commander who's gone native. Lot in here about inner darkness and the insanity of war."
"Perfect! Rambo's due for another sequel. Here's what I'm thinking: Jason Statham is Sylvester Stallone."
"And James Franco is Jason Statham!"
"Nope," Chaz flipped the cover back and forth; listening to the title page carefully, "nothing in here about Rambo."
"What's it a sequel to?"
"No idea. It's called Apocalypse something."
"Ah! Armageddon 2: Apocalypse Something. Beauty, Chaz! I'm thinking Ashton Kutcher is the new Bruce Willis. Really set those two at each other's throats. There'll be blood on the fucking streets," Geoff's voice strained, then dropped off abruptly. He collapsed on the floor.
Chaz calmly turned on his heel, made his way back to the mini-bar and flipped open the top of the ovular structure. He scanned the contents quickly, picked out the largest syringe, and strode back to Geoff's prone form. He bent on one knee, and plunged the thick, reinforced needle directly through Geoff's forehead.
Geoff immediately bolted upright, gasping and laughing. "Next script!" he cried triumphantly, rocking to his feet like a turtle.
"Last one: It's a mafia story, lots of exposition and hand-wringing. At its heart, it's all about destiny, family and sacrifice."
"Good. But set it in the Matrix."
"I'm gonna make him an offer that is the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of the matrix."
"You're like a genius sticking his dick in an artist, Geoff. But what's the deal?" Chaz gestured at Geoff's bizarrely triangle-shaped body, bleeding face and purple complexion, "What's all this about?"
"Man-corset," Geoff answered, turning to admire himself in the mirror, "it's completely collapsed both lungs, and I die every five minutes or so, but goddamn! I look like Don fucking Draper, right?"
"Fucking Don Draper as shit," Chaz admitted enviously.
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter and Facebook or you can visit mancorset.com and get all sorts of Don Draper As Fuck!
Being a household name doesn't exactly make someone a role model.
Forget 'morale-boosters,' we'd rather have the money.
Trends among women trigger a level of contempt that's way beyond what is deserved.