Geoff Chaser is the best Hollywood producer in history.
Geoff Chaser was carving that sentence into the neck of a terrible and majestic white tiger, its head lolling from the sedatives, when the door to his office shuddered. He stopped and looked up. There was silence. He screwed the magnifying loupe back into the space between his eye and cheek, and picked up the knife. The door shuddered again.
Geoff depressed a button, and his intercom buzzed into life.
"Janice!" he screamed into the little box, delighting in the classical conditioning that caused his personal assistant's asscheeks to clench whenever she heard his voice. "Either my door is possessed or you're going to find snakes in your bed tonight because you're not doing your f*****g job!"
"Yes, touch them. Touch the snakes."
"Sorry sir!" the strained voice came instantly. "It's Mr. Blazer, sir. He's ah ... he appears to have enslaved a small army of interns. They've turned the water cooler into a sort of battering ram, sir."
"Well for God's sake, woman, let him in! You know my door is always open for Chaz."
"I know, sir, but he never asked! They ran in screaming and didn't even pause. They just attacked."
"Fantastic!" Geoff stood, the abrupt motion tossing a limp tiger skull from his lap. "That's called initiative, Janice! Take notes; I'll carve them into a tiger later."
The door shuddered again, cracked and split. A flood of pasty, red-eyed 20-somethings streamed into the office, yelling and frothing at the mouth. Each was wearing an elaborate leather harness, a beer helmet and nothing else. Behind them, Chaz strode casually through the wreckage. When he saw Geoff, he extended his arms in greeting.
Like this, but the complete and total spiritual inverse.
"Geoff, my Baby, Baby, Baby b***h! Ask me why I've besieged your office!" Chaz, too, was wearing a beer helmet -- though his was equal parts polished aluminum and smooth white plastic. An Apple logo winked arrogantly from its side.
"Chaz, Sweetbreads! Why have you besieged my office?"
Chaz clapped his hands twice and clucked something in a complicated, grunting language at the interns. They immediately cowed, retreated to the far corner, squatted down meekly and awaited further direction.
"I've besieged your office because I have raped and pillaged the answer to all of our problems! You know how the investors were making a ruckus last meeting because our studio quote-unquote 'deals exclusively in the trade of fecal matter and human misery.' Well, I'll tell you what I did: I stocked my iBooze with pints of Dextromethorphan and moonshined Four Loko (I've had to fly it in daily from a little stilt-town down in the everglades since they banned it), and I sat down in my office and meditated on our little problem. Suddenly, it came to me! Baby, I got this s**t! The perfect property! It's got literary esteem, mainstream American appeal, tits, asses, epic battles and sequel potential!"
"I'm hard," Geoff replied encouragingly.
Chaz continued. "It's even got a nice, catchy title: