RPS/RPF - Make Sure They See My Face, Act I (Rated R for all parts)
RPF/RPS/Entourage/CRACK!
hackthis Productions Present:
Make Sure They See My Face (The Making of a Movie in Five Acts)
featuring Ari Gold
George Clooney
Shia LaBeouf
and Milo Ventimiglia
With Viggo Mortensen. And some other folks.
Ari Gold has never told George Clooney 'No' a day in their mutually beneficial partnership of money, power and bending Hollywood over their proverbial desk. Even when George had a mullet and couldn't jumpstart a pilot with a WMD, Ari believed in him.
When George was upset because Brad Pitt left him to play Old Mother Hubbard Takes it Up the Ass with Angie Jolie, Ari offered to have Brad killed.
When George was up for Oscars for Syriana and Good Night, Good Luck, Ari sent his ass monkey, err, assistant, Lloyd, to blow every Academy member to ensure George got his golden dildo.
There comes a time in every relationship, however, where somebody has to lay down the law. For Ari and George, that day is today. It pains Ari to tell George, "No," but everybody's got their limits.
There will be no more fucking Brokebitches this week.
"No? Ari, I didn't think you knew the meaning of the word 'no'." George quirks an eyebrow and smirks. Ari hates it when George smirks. It's vaguely hot, and it confuses Ari's heterosexuality, and then he has to take an extended lunch and go home and fuck the wife. She always seems to know when he's been hanging around George. And anyway he has work to do today. Real work, not the checking out Romanian lesbian porn kind.
"'No' means I will buy you every rent boy from here to Kentucky, G-Money, but you cannot have this one." Ari is standing behind his desk with his arms crossed; it's the only thing keeping him from jumping across his desk, grabbing George's ankles and offering to suck his cock if George will forget this madness.
"I think I can buy my own rent boys," George says wryly, "but thanks for the early Christmas gift."
"Jews don't celebrate Christmas, but for you, I'd covert to Christianity," Ari offers, snatching his daily bottle of Maalox from his desk and totally ignoring George's concerned look.
This is serious, but it hurts him more than it hurts George. It really does. His doctor insists he's going to have a heart attack if he doesn't learn to calm the fuck down. His doctor doesn't represent George Clooney though. Ari cracks the cap, chugs half the bottle, and prays that this conversation is over even as he talks with a mouth of chalky liquid. "No, means 'no, you cannot take my new box office bitch and turn him into a goddamn gay icon. Again'," Ari amends.
When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, George gives him a rueful look. " Jake was never yours in the first place."
"Stop clouding the goddamn issue with facts," Ari retorts. "Look, I drop my pants and bare my ass for you everyday, baby, but there is no way I'm letting you have Shia. I haven't even taken the price tag off his ass yet, George! He's not even done with Indiana Jones! Let's me whore him out for another 15 years and then I'll make sure you get your pound of ass," Ari pleads. "I promise."
George's mouth thins, "No, Ari."
Ari blinks. "G-Money, I love you like I love my cock, but this is my time to say, 'no' not yours. Shia is MINE. M-I-N-E. That means he sucks cock where I say and I am not wasting his hoovering talents in fucking Canuckistan with Crazy Man Mortensen!"
This is around the time that George begins to look unhappy, and Ari is sorry, but, "No is no is no."
George gets to his feet. "Ari, this is my movie. It's under Smoke House. Grant and I are producing. Viggo is directing. You are either going to get me Shia or I'm going to call him myself and tell him I know this really great guy at CAA named Rodney McKay, and Rodney will totally make you look like a declawed Shar-Pei."
Ari can feel his face falling. "George, baby, please," he entreats George with the bottle of Maalox still in his hand. "Please, don't do this to me. I know you're still mad about Brad. And Matt. And Marky Mark Calvin Klein. And people being too stupid for Michael Clayton -- but Shia. He's going to be my Box Office Golden Egg Shitting Goose! I can't have him going Brokeback for The King of the Hobbits!"
George walks towards Ari, and Ari takes a step backwards, running directly into his floor-to-ceiling windows.
"You're forcing my hand here," George warns. He looks almost tired, or as tired as the Hottest Piece of Ass in Hollywood can possibly look. Ever since the Brad Fiasco, George has been a little frayed around the edges.
Ari takes another swig of Maalox. "Shia has commitments, G. He's already lined up for his next sixteen movies -- he's not available until the AARP come to drag our crippled asses to fucking Shady Pines. Do you know he turned down going to Yale to do this shit? Can't he fake his childhood a bit longer? Please? Do you know what the Transformers people are going to do to me when they hear about this?"
George licks his lips and Ari's cock gets momentarily confused. "The suits at DreamWorks aren't my problem, Ari," George says quietly, even as he's turning Ari's phone in his direction and picking up the handset. "I'm telling you, as a courtesy our of friendship, that Viggo and I are making The Frayed Edge. In Canada. Next month. And we want Shia LaBeouf."
Ari doesn't mean to make a whimpering noise, but he can't help it. If they're starting shooting next month that means all the production bullshit is sorted. They're going to use the WGA strike to do what the fuck they want. The fucking car is packed, gassed and he needs to mount up or get the fuck out of the way.
Ari sighs. This is so very fucking bad, it's worse than when his little girl came down with the chicken pox on the day of the Oscars and Mrs. Ari forbid him from going to the Oscars with George. Shit, it wasn't like he could fucking make the chicken pox go away. If he could've he would've but -- "Who the fuck are you calling?" Ari asks suspiciously.
If George is willing to threaten Ari with taking Shia away the only thing worse would be taking Vinnie or leaving himself or or --
"Hey, Daddy Dearest," George greets the person on the other end, and Ari's heart falls into the floor as George hits the button for the speakerphone.
"God fucking DAMNIT, George!" Ari howls.
George smirks at Ari across the desk as Matt Damon's throaty tenor welcomes him down the line. "Ari, baby, I've told you, you to need to tell Mrs. Ari to use more lube if you're going to be sitting down all day."
"Shut up, Matt," Ari sulks. "Whatever George is going to tell you, I just want to say a) I didn't do it b) You have no proof c) There are no bodies and d) Even I did do it, you can't prove it, and I don't want Shia to be anybody's ass monkey but mine this early in our relationship!"
The Maalox sloshes in the bottle as Ari grabs for his desk to lean into the microphone. "Matt, don't make me do it, please," Ari pleads. "Shia hasn't even started Transformers 2 yet! At least let me get my 10% first!"
Matt's quiet down the line for several seconds, but Ari doesn't even have to look up to know that George is holding the Sword of Clooney over his head. This is a good time to upend the bottle of Maalox again. Sometimes being George's bitch is really tiring.
"Okay, what the hell are we talking about?" Matt asks eventually.
"Viggo and I are going to make The Frayed Edge," George elaborates. His voice bounces off of every shiny surface in Ari's office and makes Ari's asshole contract.
"You're finally going to fucking make it?" Matt sounds thrilled; Ari is doomed. "How fuckin' long you been talking about this, Clooney? Shit, I would've been young enough to play Noah when you first got the rights."
"Yeah, well, you're too fucking old now, Pops," George replies good naturedly.
"That's too bad. I'd totally get it up for -- who's this you're casting again?"
"Shia LaBeouf." George is as happy as Ari at the Playboy mansion. Ari's balls are retreating into his body. This must be what the rest of the world feels like when he blackmails them into giving him whatever he wants.
"Shia?" Matt asks. "Shia the kid from the Project Greenlight disaster?"
"That's the one," George says. "And it can't have been much of a disaster -- he's doing the new Indiana Jones with Cate."
"You know he was the best thing about that snafu, right? Isn't he a little young for Noah?"
"No, he's going to be playing Simon," George replies.
"Huh. So, who's going to be playing Noah?"
"I'm thinking Ryan Gosling," George says, "Since Asshat Wahlberg is taking his place in The Lovely Bones, this should work out beautifully."
George seems very sure about this, which makes Ari very worried. Fuck him. Hard. With an uncut diamond dildo. Ari's life is going to suck fantastically. Forever. Ari kneels down on the floor; he might as well get himself used to all the cocksucking in cheap bathrooms he's going to have to do anyway.
"This is just fucking fantastic," Ari snaps, "You've got the two most certifiable actors in town in your film, why not just fucking hire HoHan and throw the money in one of the wildfires! You know Ryan Gosling makes J Lo look low maintenance!"
"Ari -- shut up," George commands. Ari toys with his bottle of Maalox while he sulks.
There's a wailing noise down the phone and Matt makes a shushing noises. Ari's going to be constipated for a month. Eventually Matt's melodious voice breaks his reverie. "Ari, you okay? I think I can hear you hyperventilating down here."
"I won't let him do it," Ari says stubbornly, banging the plastic bottle on the floor. "No, George. The answer is 'no'."
George snorts and Matt speaks up. "Ari, give the man what he wants. If you don't, we're going to have to dig that script about the McCarthy hearings and the relationship between Roy Cohn and David Schine out of development hell, you don't want that."
Ari rubs his forehead and checks to see if there's any Maalox left. There's not. "So, my choices are to have Shia be a butt monkey for Ryan Gosling or to let you two fuck each other on-screen in another period piece tanker. I'd rather see you two," he grumbles.
George and Matt's combined laughter is a little bit like another bottle of Maalox. "I know that's your favorite fantasy ever," Matt replies, "but those tapes are under lock and key, and you're not getting them until we're both dead."
"Nobody ever lets me have any fun."
"You can have fun when you give George Shia," says Matt.
"I'm not letting you turn him into your house boy," Ari waves his finger at the phone, as though Matt can see him. "You rent by the fucking hour at the Motel Gold, not the week, you hear me?"
George chuckles "Anything else, Mom?"
Ari frowns and then gives up. "Fine, you win," he concedes, looking up to see George gazing at him fondly. "I'll get you Shia for your Mountain Man Does Brokebitch Canuckistan film." Ari can't help making air quotes around the word film. "But don't think you can disguise your gay porn as art and fool my pasty ass."
"Aw, you know we love your pasty ass," Matt offers as Ari gets to his feet.
"Shut up and go knock up your beard again, Bourne," Ari counters, throwing his bottle of Maalox in besides the other two he's chugged this morning. "I have to go shoot myself in the foot now."
"Aw, Ari," Matt mocks. "Don't be that way -- you never know, he may say no."
"Yeah, and tomorrow I'm going to wake up gay, getting fucked up the ass by Lance Bass. Not fucking likely," Ari says, disconnecting the phone under George's victorious grin.
George's teeth are entirely too white. Ari hates George sometimes -- but that only tends to last five seconds at the most. "So," Ari says over the reverberating dial tone, "You want to call Shia and give him the news, or should I just go down to Sunset and get him a big vibrator gift basket from Hustler?"
George cocks his head to the side and considers Ari for a couple seconds. Yeah, Ari's totally boning the wife at lunch. "Ari, what's the worst than could happen?" George offers.
Ari stares at George like he just announced he was straight. "Oh, I dunno, you could fall in love with him and run off to raise orphaned Somali babies in Vermont."
George makes a terrific scoffing noise. "C'mon on now, Ari, you know I'd never leave you like that -- besides, I don't date anybody under the age of 27. Shia's hardly even 21."
Ari rolls his eyes. "Wow, I feel really consoled now."
George grins.
Ari sighs even as he speed dials Shia. "We're fucked. We are totally fucked."
The phone rings, once, twice, and for a brief moment of time Ari thinks he might get a reprieve. Maybe Shia's asleep, passed out between the mountainous silicone tits of two stripers from Spearmint Rhino, and then he remembers this is Shia and not him. There are several clicks before the phone is picked up, and Ari knows defeat is holding a gun to his head.
"Hey, Ari," Shia sounds so young, so not fudge packed and defiled. Today is a black day in Ari's heart. His golden goose is about to go unhygienic, starving, method indie actor. Damn them all to hell.
Oh, wait, it's too late for that.
"Shia, baby, what's the good word? Everybody still sane and passing their drug tests? Did you like those Jay-Z tickets I got you last week?"
"Yeah, the seats were awesome, I took Lorenzo-"
"Aw, Shia, I give you shit like that so you'll go get some little blonde starlet pussy! Don't waste thousands of dollars on your best friend, who'll put out anyway!"
George snorts beside him and Ari shakes his head, which is totally wasted on the phone. Ari clears his throat over Shia's laughing. "Shia, Goose that Shits Golden Eggs, I, uh-"
George whaps Ari's arm and cuts him off. "Shia, hi, this is George Clooney. We've never met before, but Ari and I go way back."
There's a long pause down the line and Ari hopes for an earthquake or at least a dropped signal. "George, hi," Shia's entire tenor changes and Ari knows he is already lost. Shia's voice has gone down two octaves to seduction, business and 'I'm only 21, but for George fucking Clooney I can be 50 if you want'.
"I know your schedule is probably really packed at the moment," George carries on over the keening noise that Ari starts making, "but with the guild strike coming up, I have this opportunity that's presented itself and I would really like to meet with you about it."
"What kind of opportunity?" Shia sounds like he's about to whip out his dick and jerk off over the phone. Ari needs therapy. He can feel the charm oozing out of George's pores and all over his desk. Ari knows Shia is lost. George could ask him to put on a yellow chicken suit and dance outside El Pollo Loco, like one William Bradley Pitt, and Shia would do it.
"There's this film that I'm producing next month. It's a short shoot. Three weeks, but it's going to be in Canada. And Viggo Mortensen is directing-"
"And you can sign me up now," Shia adds.
Ari groans. "Shia, you don't have--" Ari cuts himself off at George's glare.
"Don't you want to read the script first?" George offers.
"I trust you," Shia insists, "and if nothing else I trust Ari."
It's about this time that Ari puts his head down on his desk and decides to die. His balls have already crawled back into his body in shame, but he really shouldn't be surprised.
He's been George's bitch for so long it was only a matter of time before he grew a pussy.
-- Act II: Milo--
In Association with generous grants from Slodwick Art, literaryll Music Provision and antheia Peanut Gallery, coming soon to a theatre near you: The Frayed Edge , directed by Viggo Mortensen and Executive Produced by George 'Hotass' Clooney.
hackthis Productions Present:
Make Sure They See My Face (The Making of a Movie in Five Acts)
featuring Ari Gold
George Clooney
Shia LaBeouf
and Milo Ventimiglia
With Viggo Mortensen. And some other folks.
Ari Gold has never told George Clooney 'No' a day in their mutually beneficial partnership of money, power and bending Hollywood over their proverbial desk. Even when George had a mullet and couldn't jumpstart a pilot with a WMD, Ari believed in him.
When George was upset because Brad Pitt left him to play Old Mother Hubbard Takes it Up the Ass with Angie Jolie, Ari offered to have Brad killed.
When George was up for Oscars for Syriana and Good Night, Good Luck, Ari sent his ass monkey, err, assistant, Lloyd, to blow every Academy member to ensure George got his golden dildo.
There comes a time in every relationship, however, where somebody has to lay down the law. For Ari and George, that day is today. It pains Ari to tell George, "No," but everybody's got their limits.
There will be no more fucking Brokebitches this week.
"No? Ari, I didn't think you knew the meaning of the word 'no'." George quirks an eyebrow and smirks. Ari hates it when George smirks. It's vaguely hot, and it confuses Ari's heterosexuality, and then he has to take an extended lunch and go home and fuck the wife. She always seems to know when he's been hanging around George. And anyway he has work to do today. Real work, not the checking out Romanian lesbian porn kind.
"'No' means I will buy you every rent boy from here to Kentucky, G-Money, but you cannot have this one." Ari is standing behind his desk with his arms crossed; it's the only thing keeping him from jumping across his desk, grabbing George's ankles and offering to suck his cock if George will forget this madness.
"I think I can buy my own rent boys," George says wryly, "but thanks for the early Christmas gift."
"Jews don't celebrate Christmas, but for you, I'd covert to Christianity," Ari offers, snatching his daily bottle of Maalox from his desk and totally ignoring George's concerned look.
This is serious, but it hurts him more than it hurts George. It really does. His doctor insists he's going to have a heart attack if he doesn't learn to calm the fuck down. His doctor doesn't represent George Clooney though. Ari cracks the cap, chugs half the bottle, and prays that this conversation is over even as he talks with a mouth of chalky liquid. "No, means 'no, you cannot take my new box office bitch and turn him into a goddamn gay icon. Again'," Ari amends.
When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, George gives him a rueful look. " Jake was never yours in the first place."
"Stop clouding the goddamn issue with facts," Ari retorts. "Look, I drop my pants and bare my ass for you everyday, baby, but there is no way I'm letting you have Shia. I haven't even taken the price tag off his ass yet, George! He's not even done with Indiana Jones! Let's me whore him out for another 15 years and then I'll make sure you get your pound of ass," Ari pleads. "I promise."
George's mouth thins, "No, Ari."
Ari blinks. "G-Money, I love you like I love my cock, but this is my time to say, 'no' not yours. Shia is MINE. M-I-N-E. That means he sucks cock where I say and I am not wasting his hoovering talents in fucking Canuckistan with Crazy Man Mortensen!"
This is around the time that George begins to look unhappy, and Ari is sorry, but, "No is no is no."
George gets to his feet. "Ari, this is my movie. It's under Smoke House. Grant and I are producing. Viggo is directing. You are either going to get me Shia or I'm going to call him myself and tell him I know this really great guy at CAA named Rodney McKay, and Rodney will totally make you look like a declawed Shar-Pei."
Ari can feel his face falling. "George, baby, please," he entreats George with the bottle of Maalox still in his hand. "Please, don't do this to me. I know you're still mad about Brad. And Matt. And Marky Mark Calvin Klein. And people being too stupid for Michael Clayton -- but Shia. He's going to be my Box Office Golden Egg Shitting Goose! I can't have him going Brokeback for The King of the Hobbits!"
George walks towards Ari, and Ari takes a step backwards, running directly into his floor-to-ceiling windows.
"You're forcing my hand here," George warns. He looks almost tired, or as tired as the Hottest Piece of Ass in Hollywood can possibly look. Ever since the Brad Fiasco, George has been a little frayed around the edges.
Ari takes another swig of Maalox. "Shia has commitments, G. He's already lined up for his next sixteen movies -- he's not available until the AARP come to drag our crippled asses to fucking Shady Pines. Do you know he turned down going to Yale to do this shit? Can't he fake his childhood a bit longer? Please? Do you know what the Transformers people are going to do to me when they hear about this?"
George licks his lips and Ari's cock gets momentarily confused. "The suits at DreamWorks aren't my problem, Ari," George says quietly, even as he's turning Ari's phone in his direction and picking up the handset. "I'm telling you, as a courtesy our of friendship, that Viggo and I are making The Frayed Edge. In Canada. Next month. And we want Shia LaBeouf."
Ari doesn't mean to make a whimpering noise, but he can't help it. If they're starting shooting next month that means all the production bullshit is sorted. They're going to use the WGA strike to do what the fuck they want. The fucking car is packed, gassed and he needs to mount up or get the fuck out of the way.
Ari sighs. This is so very fucking bad, it's worse than when his little girl came down with the chicken pox on the day of the Oscars and Mrs. Ari forbid him from going to the Oscars with George. Shit, it wasn't like he could fucking make the chicken pox go away. If he could've he would've but -- "Who the fuck are you calling?" Ari asks suspiciously.
If George is willing to threaten Ari with taking Shia away the only thing worse would be taking Vinnie or leaving himself or or --
"Hey, Daddy Dearest," George greets the person on the other end, and Ari's heart falls into the floor as George hits the button for the speakerphone.
"God fucking DAMNIT, George!" Ari howls.
George smirks at Ari across the desk as Matt Damon's throaty tenor welcomes him down the line. "Ari, baby, I've told you, you to need to tell Mrs. Ari to use more lube if you're going to be sitting down all day."
"Shut up, Matt," Ari sulks. "Whatever George is going to tell you, I just want to say a) I didn't do it b) You have no proof c) There are no bodies and d) Even I did do it, you can't prove it, and I don't want Shia to be anybody's ass monkey but mine this early in our relationship!"
The Maalox sloshes in the bottle as Ari grabs for his desk to lean into the microphone. "Matt, don't make me do it, please," Ari pleads. "Shia hasn't even started Transformers 2 yet! At least let me get my 10% first!"
Matt's quiet down the line for several seconds, but Ari doesn't even have to look up to know that George is holding the Sword of Clooney over his head. This is a good time to upend the bottle of Maalox again. Sometimes being George's bitch is really tiring.
"Okay, what the hell are we talking about?" Matt asks eventually.
"Viggo and I are going to make The Frayed Edge," George elaborates. His voice bounces off of every shiny surface in Ari's office and makes Ari's asshole contract.
"You're finally going to fucking make it?" Matt sounds thrilled; Ari is doomed. "How fuckin' long you been talking about this, Clooney? Shit, I would've been young enough to play Noah when you first got the rights."
"Yeah, well, you're too fucking old now, Pops," George replies good naturedly.
"That's too bad. I'd totally get it up for -- who's this you're casting again?"
"Shia LaBeouf." George is as happy as Ari at the Playboy mansion. Ari's balls are retreating into his body. This must be what the rest of the world feels like when he blackmails them into giving him whatever he wants.
"Shia?" Matt asks. "Shia the kid from the Project Greenlight disaster?"
"That's the one," George says. "And it can't have been much of a disaster -- he's doing the new Indiana Jones with Cate."
"You know he was the best thing about that snafu, right? Isn't he a little young for Noah?"
"No, he's going to be playing Simon," George replies.
"Huh. So, who's going to be playing Noah?"
"I'm thinking Ryan Gosling," George says, "Since Asshat Wahlberg is taking his place in The Lovely Bones, this should work out beautifully."
George seems very sure about this, which makes Ari very worried. Fuck him. Hard. With an uncut diamond dildo. Ari's life is going to suck fantastically. Forever. Ari kneels down on the floor; he might as well get himself used to all the cocksucking in cheap bathrooms he's going to have to do anyway.
"This is just fucking fantastic," Ari snaps, "You've got the two most certifiable actors in town in your film, why not just fucking hire HoHan and throw the money in one of the wildfires! You know Ryan Gosling makes J Lo look low maintenance!"
"Ari -- shut up," George commands. Ari toys with his bottle of Maalox while he sulks.
There's a wailing noise down the phone and Matt makes a shushing noises. Ari's going to be constipated for a month. Eventually Matt's melodious voice breaks his reverie. "Ari, you okay? I think I can hear you hyperventilating down here."
"I won't let him do it," Ari says stubbornly, banging the plastic bottle on the floor. "No, George. The answer is 'no'."
George snorts and Matt speaks up. "Ari, give the man what he wants. If you don't, we're going to have to dig that script about the McCarthy hearings and the relationship between Roy Cohn and David Schine out of development hell, you don't want that."
Ari rubs his forehead and checks to see if there's any Maalox left. There's not. "So, my choices are to have Shia be a butt monkey for Ryan Gosling or to let you two fuck each other on-screen in another period piece tanker. I'd rather see you two," he grumbles.
George and Matt's combined laughter is a little bit like another bottle of Maalox. "I know that's your favorite fantasy ever," Matt replies, "but those tapes are under lock and key, and you're not getting them until we're both dead."
"Nobody ever lets me have any fun."
"You can have fun when you give George Shia," says Matt.
"I'm not letting you turn him into your house boy," Ari waves his finger at the phone, as though Matt can see him. "You rent by the fucking hour at the Motel Gold, not the week, you hear me?"
George chuckles "Anything else, Mom?"
Ari frowns and then gives up. "Fine, you win," he concedes, looking up to see George gazing at him fondly. "I'll get you Shia for your Mountain Man Does Brokebitch Canuckistan film." Ari can't help making air quotes around the word film. "But don't think you can disguise your gay porn as art and fool my pasty ass."
"Aw, you know we love your pasty ass," Matt offers as Ari gets to his feet.
"Shut up and go knock up your beard again, Bourne," Ari counters, throwing his bottle of Maalox in besides the other two he's chugged this morning. "I have to go shoot myself in the foot now."
"Aw, Ari," Matt mocks. "Don't be that way -- you never know, he may say no."
"Yeah, and tomorrow I'm going to wake up gay, getting fucked up the ass by Lance Bass. Not fucking likely," Ari says, disconnecting the phone under George's victorious grin.
George's teeth are entirely too white. Ari hates George sometimes -- but that only tends to last five seconds at the most. "So," Ari says over the reverberating dial tone, "You want to call Shia and give him the news, or should I just go down to Sunset and get him a big vibrator gift basket from Hustler?"
George cocks his head to the side and considers Ari for a couple seconds. Yeah, Ari's totally boning the wife at lunch. "Ari, what's the worst than could happen?" George offers.
Ari stares at George like he just announced he was straight. "Oh, I dunno, you could fall in love with him and run off to raise orphaned Somali babies in Vermont."
George makes a terrific scoffing noise. "C'mon on now, Ari, you know I'd never leave you like that -- besides, I don't date anybody under the age of 27. Shia's hardly even 21."
Ari rolls his eyes. "Wow, I feel really consoled now."
George grins.
Ari sighs even as he speed dials Shia. "We're fucked. We are totally fucked."
The phone rings, once, twice, and for a brief moment of time Ari thinks he might get a reprieve. Maybe Shia's asleep, passed out between the mountainous silicone tits of two stripers from Spearmint Rhino, and then he remembers this is Shia and not him. There are several clicks before the phone is picked up, and Ari knows defeat is holding a gun to his head.
"Hey, Ari," Shia sounds so young, so not fudge packed and defiled. Today is a black day in Ari's heart. His golden goose is about to go unhygienic, starving, method indie actor. Damn them all to hell.
Oh, wait, it's too late for that.
"Shia, baby, what's the good word? Everybody still sane and passing their drug tests? Did you like those Jay-Z tickets I got you last week?"
"Yeah, the seats were awesome, I took Lorenzo-"
"Aw, Shia, I give you shit like that so you'll go get some little blonde starlet pussy! Don't waste thousands of dollars on your best friend, who'll put out anyway!"
George snorts beside him and Ari shakes his head, which is totally wasted on the phone. Ari clears his throat over Shia's laughing. "Shia, Goose that Shits Golden Eggs, I, uh-"
George whaps Ari's arm and cuts him off. "Shia, hi, this is George Clooney. We've never met before, but Ari and I go way back."
There's a long pause down the line and Ari hopes for an earthquake or at least a dropped signal. "George, hi," Shia's entire tenor changes and Ari knows he is already lost. Shia's voice has gone down two octaves to seduction, business and 'I'm only 21, but for George fucking Clooney I can be 50 if you want'.
"I know your schedule is probably really packed at the moment," George carries on over the keening noise that Ari starts making, "but with the guild strike coming up, I have this opportunity that's presented itself and I would really like to meet with you about it."
"What kind of opportunity?" Shia sounds like he's about to whip out his dick and jerk off over the phone. Ari needs therapy. He can feel the charm oozing out of George's pores and all over his desk. Ari knows Shia is lost. George could ask him to put on a yellow chicken suit and dance outside El Pollo Loco, like one William Bradley Pitt, and Shia would do it.
"There's this film that I'm producing next month. It's a short shoot. Three weeks, but it's going to be in Canada. And Viggo Mortensen is directing-"
"And you can sign me up now," Shia adds.
Ari groans. "Shia, you don't have--" Ari cuts himself off at George's glare.
"Don't you want to read the script first?" George offers.
"I trust you," Shia insists, "and if nothing else I trust Ari."
It's about this time that Ari puts his head down on his desk and decides to die. His balls have already crawled back into his body in shame, but he really shouldn't be surprised.
He's been George's bitch for so long it was only a matter of time before he grew a pussy.
-- Act II: Milo--
In Association with generous grants from Slodwick Art, literaryll Music Provision and antheia Peanut Gallery, coming soon to a theatre near you: The Frayed Edge , directed by Viggo Mortensen and Executive Produced by George 'Hotass' Clooney.