Even the pizza tasted drab, like a black-and-white movie. The slice would never be finished; it and the paper plate slid into the trash can on his way out the door. This morning, Amy was going to pay.
Hal Brock, 1940s Movie Star, was going to make her pay. He called his agent into his trailer.
>Why in the everlasting fuck would she make me a prop pizza I was supposed to eat? Couldn't the bitch just run around the corner, grab a slice, and maybe warm it up for me? Why the fuck I gotta taste cardboard?
His agent, Chaim, attempted to calm him down
>Amy is a wonderful girl, really. I'm sure she don't mean nothing by it. It's just, she is an artistic soul, she likes to make props. And worse than that, she is the niece of a studio executive.
>Also, as you know, we ain't filming this in New York, kid. You'd have to go 100 miles to find a slice, and even then, it would taste worse than the cardboard pizza you had to taste during the scene.
Hal Brock stood up from the bed in his trailer, turned around, and approached his tiny Jewish Agent.
>I know how much film the studio got on the reel. I know how hyped the film is. I know how much money they sunk into this project, starting 'Hal Brock.' You tell that little special effects bitch, studio niece or not, I want her to make me a nice fucking pizza, or else, I walk to the other studios.
Tell her to come to my trailer, too.
I like the little micro-world you created with this vignette.
I like the little micro-world you created with this vignette.
They keep on telling me that brevity is where it is at, but I really don't think brevity pays.
They keep on telling me that brevity is where it is at, but I really don't think brevity pays.
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