Brain numbing ideas are thrown across my desk all day, and you wouldn’t believe the ideas that these morons come up with. The other day I read a script about, and I shit you not, a gay paraplegic brain surgeon that fights terrorists. And that was one of the good ones. I get hundreds of these pieces of shit a day.

So the first thing that I do in the morning is get high. It’s not like it matters, though; everyone in this stale neon town is high. It’s how we deal with the stuff that most people know nothing about. You know that multiplex theatre with twenty screens in your town? I’m most likely responsible for every movie there.

Some people say that every cigarette you smoke shortens your life by fifteen minutes. Well every movie you make takes a year off. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.

You think that these great directors and writers and producers make movies because they love it? Because it’s their life? Because it’s their passion? Forget it. Most of them are hacks that don’t know their dick from a Panavision. If anyone ever tells you that they are making movies because they love the art of it, or some shit like that, they’re lying.

Rule #1: The reason for everything here is money.

Rule #2: The answer to every question is money.

Rule #3: Money is more important than life.

All those great directors that make these great films that you all love…they kiss my ass. Why? Because I control the money, and that’s always, always where the power will be in this town.

* * *

It’s not very often that I have to actually go to talk to the directors and actors, let alone go to the set of the film. Only on special occasions. Only in emergencies. I’m not talking about an actor snapping his leg in three places during the filming of a stunt. There are hospitals to take care of that. I’m not talking about a screenwriter who won’t do a rewrite on a script or the director who wants to retain the “creative control” over the film. I simply fire the arrogant prick and hire on someone else. No, I only come to the set when there is a real serious emergency and today there is a real serious emergency.

Romance between costars on the set of a film is not uncommon. Neither are breakups. And this morning Sofia Renoir, the three time Oscar winning lead actress, just found out that her soon to be ex-husband had been sleeping with her assistant for the last four months. I’ll be honest; normally I could give a rip about who is banging who. But it just so happens that her soon to be ex-husband, Martin Leone, is also the male lead in the film and now $150 million (along with my neck) is on the line. Without these two actors, I have no film and she is threatening to leave.

I arrive on the set and find out Sofia has locked herself in her trailer and Martin has wandered off somewhere, most likely to the nearest booze hole.

Beyond all the equipment, extras, and hundreds of crewmembers wandering aimlessly, is Sofia’s trailer. After a quick calculation, I figure that for every hour spent in this gridlock, I’m losing $3,500. I need to work quickly. A knock on the flimsy fiberglass door and she answers, still in some ridiculously huge 18^{th Century pink dress, makeup streaming down her face. The key to winning this conversation is to act like I truly care.}

“Oh, Sofia,” as I open my arms and hug her.

“I can’t believe this is happening, Trent,” she whines.

I feel her wet cheeks against mine and a couple of her tears fall onto my neck and roll down my shirt. I wish I had sent my assistant to do this.

“I should have never married that asshole.”

“It’s going to be alright, sweetheart.”

She closes the door to her trailer and we go to sit down. The pre-furnished rental trailer looks like a hotel room on wheels, complete with worthless abstract paintings composed of blue, red, and green smears. Every piece of mass produced flame retardant furniture has the distinct look of something made to look hand made and expensive, but failing. The shoddy combination makes me nauseous. I look on the coffee table and sure as shit, there’s a Bible. Goddamn Gideon’s.

Her dress crumples like a paper bag as we sit down on her blue striped couch. Foregoing all the things I should say, I skip straight to the point.

“Sofia, I know this is a very difficult time for you. But I need to know if-“

She interrupts. She already knew where this was going.

“I refuse to go near that prick. I never want to see him again.”

Think quick.

“I know Sophie…it’s not going to be easy. But you know this is the role of a lifetime for you. Remember two years ago when you told me that you would do anything to get this role? I knew you were perfect back then.”

She smiled and let out a couple of small appreciative chuckles through her sobs and snuffles.

Flattery will get you everywhere.

I continue to kiss ass. “And I know you’re still perfect now. Listen Sophie, I already talked to Martin about this, and he told me that he was excruciatingly sorry. He said he can’t change what happened, or will happen, but he wants to continue with this film. And he wants you too finish it too. Then after it’s complete you two can work things out. And I am willing to do anything to help convince you to stay.”

Her smiles drips away and she turns to look me squarely in the eye. “I’m divorcing the asshole. And I’m not finishing this movie with him.”

Dammit, I need something good here.

“Sophie, I will do anything to get you to stay. I mean anything. Just name it.”

She looks up at me

* * *

Not far from the film location, I find Martin stooped over the bar in some dive called “Emo’s Fine Food and Cocktails.” As I walk in, I wonder if the name was supposed to be a joke. The entire building looks as if it’s made out of the black, decayed, moldy wood from the bow of an old ship.

Hanging from one hinge is the front door. Separating from the floor and curling at the edges is the soiled green and yellow linoleum. Holding up the cracked brown glass windows are scraps of grimy plywood.

I take a seat next to him and throw him an elbow. A bloodshot eye opens and peeks through the spent shot glasses and tired beer bottles.

“Martin, you really fucked up this time, didn’t you?”

“Well, Trent old boy. Don’t see you down here very often.”

The aroma of various gins, bourbons, tequilas, and vodkas vacates his mouth as he talks. Apparently he likes to keep variety in his liquor selection, as well as his women.

"Marty, I could give a shit who you're throwing it to. But when your cock gets thrown into the spokes of my machine, then I care."

Martin thinks for a moment. I can see my words trudging with machetes through the liquor filled jungle that is his brain. They don't register and he lays his head back down.

"I'm sorry to say, Marty, that I have to kill you."

His head perks up and eyes open widely. Then he smiles and shakes his head.

"You know, Trent, you're the second person to tell me that today. But I think she was bluffing. Besides, you can't kill me off; I know the writer, and Preston wouldn't dare let you change anything on his script."

I knew he was right. Remember when I told you that normally I would just fire the pretentious prick and hire someone else? Well that doesn't count when the writer is Preston Gilliam. This man is at least eighty-nine years old and could still probably kick my ass. Besides, merely having his name attached to the script triples the value, and he has a huge fan base which means, you guessed it, bigger profits.

"You're right, Preston would never change the script. I should have explained it better too you. I'm not going to kill you off, Marty."

"Damn right you're not, you pinstriped prick."

Martin grabs what's left of a scotch shot and finishes it off.

"I'm not going to kill you off, Marty. I'm just going to kill you."

* * *

When I beat Marty to death, I didn't really worry about the police or anybody else asking too many questions. Never forget Rule #2. As long as the public sees him on screen, everyone is happy.

Well, everyone except Martin, maybe.

There was much care taken and I knew going into this that it was imperative that I didn't damage his face too much; I still needed his ugly mug to look decent on screen. That was easy enough; he was too drunk to put up much of a fight.

I took him out back behind Emo's and threw him to the gravel-covered alleyway. He pissed in his pants as he lay there shaking.

Seeing as I didn't have a gun or a knife, I found a sizeable rock lying near the rusted blue dumpster. Using the rock, I tried to knock him unconscious, but after I saw the fairly large gash I stopped, and instead smashed the rock into his chest until his heart stopped beating.

Strangely I found the whole experience somewhat peaceful. For a moment I thought it might make a good hobby, something to do to kill time on the weekends. Pardon the pun.

Afterwards, good ol' Emo helped me carry Marty to my car and put him into the trunk.

"Hey, isn't this that Martin Leone?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

Rule #2.

So that's where Golden Globe winner Martin Leone ended up that day, in the trunk of my Lincoln, headed to the Jackson Funeral Home to be promptly embalmed. After the embalming, I brought him back to the set so we could continue the filming.

^{Jackson told me that we would have about three weeks before the formaldehyde couldn't prevent the decay any longer and we would have to use a good amount of makeup to keep him looking up to par. If we wanted to keep using Martin, we would have to get his oil changed every three weeks or so.}

We used those three weeks to finish shooting all of the scenes in The Daisy That Grew Way Too Big that required Martin and later dubbed whatever dialogue he had using some no name actor. Sofia was happy and nobody ever knew the difference.

After that, we simply placed Martin Leone in the prop warehouse for storage right next to the rubber octopus.

* * *

I’m driving down Interstate 10, on my way to get some mescaline, when my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey Trent, this is Sandy.”

Sandy Chaplin, one of the executives over at Warner Brothers.

“Hi, Sandy. What’s up?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that the Academy released their list this morning and The Daisy That Grew Way Too Big received three nominations.”

I love the way that everyone shits their pants when the Oscar list is announced. I could care less.

“Oh wow Sandy that’s great. That really makes my day.”

“I thought so too. You’re up for Best Picture, and Martin Leone is up for Best Actor.”

Is she serious? Those hacks actually nominated Marty. They really are as stupid as I thought.

“Well, that’s great. Good for Marty.”

“Oh, and he deserves it Trent. That scene where Marty dies, oh, it was amazing. I’ve never seen such a powerful scene. I swear to god, I cried for three hours afterwards.”

It was a great scene. And all we did was tie some fishing string to Marty’s shoulders, stand him up, and then cut the strings when it was time for him to die. It was beautiful.

She continues. “He is one of the great actors of our generation. Maybe of all time. But I was wondering where he is. I’ve been trying to find him all week...”

“Mm hmm…”

“Have you seen Marty lately?”