So that's what the whip was for...
"Holy Piss-Christ," Chaz immediately saw the potential: Action. Adventure. Mystery. Controversy. The teenage market. Psychographics. Media synergy. Trending tweets.
"HEY," Geoff snapped his fingers in front of Chaz's face, "IF YOU TUNE OUT ON ME AGAIN I WILL THROW THIS MAN OUT THE WINDOW FOR REASONS THAT ARE NO LONGER CLEAR TO ME AS I HAVE FORGOTTEN THE BEGINNING OF THIS SENTENCE."
"Sorry, homeslice: Caught in a psychic marketing spiral. You know how it goes," Chaz explained, while Geoff nodded in unspoken understanding. "How on God's Green Asshole did we get this?"
"Production is cursed," Geoff picked the storyboard artist up off the floor, hefted the man over his head with startling ease, then hurled him down in front of some papers, "Spielberg's been on this s**t for decades, but everybody keeps walking away. Last two years alone, they've lost both their lead and co-producer. Cited scheduling conflicts, but that's not the real problem, obviously. The thing is: Nobody knows how to deal with the racism. They keep trying to whitewash it -- pun so totally intended, friend-o -- and every time they do, they act surprised that the property has lost all its magic."
It's called talking, Tintin - Jesus Christ, they're human beings!
"Ha!" Geoff scoffed, "what is this, freshman year at Vassar? The racism's the hook! It's just the kind of gritty edge kids 5-8 are looking for today."
"PRECISELY!" Geoff barked, twice, then knelt to the floor, and squeezed his hands into fists so tightly that his forearms shook from the effort. "So now it's up to us to bring racism back. You know, like Timberlake did for sexy."
"What's going on here?" Chaz motioned at the destroyed office, the still-bloody claw marks from the aborted wall-scaling, the huddled twitching.
"Deep Brain Thalamic Stimulation," he answered through giggles, "Wire implanted in your skull. Sends controlled shocks right into your brain, helps combat Parkinson's."
"And you had it...?"
"Wired into my sympathetic nervous system! That's right! Now every decision is fight-or-flight! It's like you're inside my head, broseph! GET OUT OF MY HEAD."
"Gentlemen? Please, I...I've been here for days..." The storyboard artist said meekly, gesturing at his blank sketchbook.
"DID YOU JUST TALK DIRECTLY TO ME?" Geoff leapt from his crouched position, sprawled across the desk, and seized the man by his little yellow bowtie.
"Janice!" He yelled into the intercom.
"Yes sir?" The reply came back at once, his assistant's voice as crisp and precise as ever.
"Get the Grim Reaper on the phone. Tell him to schedule a pick up."
"Right away, sir," she confirmed, and clicked off.
"See if you can pencil him in for a quick 9, while you've got him."
"Wow. She didn't even question it," Chaz noted, impressed.
"Ha, I know! I wonder who she's actually calling?" Geoff chuckled, then directed his attention back to the man he was still throttling. "Why am I strangling you, again? Answer me, damn you, or I'll strangle you!"
"Storyboards," Chaz reminded him.
"Ah," Geoff made a noise of acknowledgment, seemed to like it, and extended it outward into a scream. "Ah, ahh, aaaAAAHHHH! Okay, let's get to work!"
He released the man's neck, crawled off of his desk, straightened his posture and began dictating.
What followed was the single most exhilarating creative experience of Chaz Blazer's life. He and Geoff were not merely working together; it was more than that. It was something symbiotic. Every thought one man had was augmented and strengthened by the other. Every word was considered, weighed, and judged as though it held the fate of nations. Every sentence was forged, tempered, and forged again, like the folding of steel. The men layered idea upon idea, until they formed one indistinguishable whole; one story whose edge was honed so fine it could split the zeitgeist itself in twain.
It was morning again by the time they finished. Smiling, they turned to the artist as one to examine their finished product.
"Show us, art-whore," Geoff whispered in the exhausted man's ear.
He obediently swiveled the page to face them:
When they were done reading, Geoff stripped the storyboard artist naked and hurled him bodily from the office, then sat down across from Chaz. For a long time neither man spoke a word.
"What are you going to do with
billion dollars?" Geoff finally asked, smiling.
"World's largest hovercraft," Chaz answered, after a moment's consideration. "The rest I'm going to eat in front of a starving family. You?"
"Endangered Species Fight Club," Geoff replied instantly.
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 and no, those comic panels are not Photoshopped. That's all Unmodified, Grade-A, Original Racism on display up there.
Recommended For Your Pleasure