Chapter 68.5: Sissy’s Fucking Fuss

Chapter 68.5: Sissy’s Fucking Fuss

WB Studio Offices, LA. October 2011.

“What a shitshow. What a fucking shitshow…” How—how could this have happened!? Jeff Robinov’s chest was thumping, but it wasn’t the aftermath of his King Kong routine this time. 

He’d clawed himself up the skyscraper - up the mountaintop, or whatever the hell else you wanted to call it. But rather than discovering that glorious golden kingdom at the peak of his career—there was nothing. No summit to soar over, just a barren crater without a goddamn bottom.

A hole he’d dug himself with a shovel labelled Bas Rhys.

Jeff’s fingernails were hurting. He didn’t know whether from clenching his fist too tight from not being allowed to speak, or if he was still aching from this crownless climb.

As much as Jeff wanted to reign from his throne, fact was that coronations happened by the grace of a higher authority. “You’ve fucked us, Jeff. Royally.” Barry Meyer wasn’t merely the CEO and chairman of WB in this scenario—he was god almighty itself. There’d be no castle to rule without his tacit say so.

And right now? Forget divine right, he’d be lucky avoiding the full brunt of Barry’s smite. “It was a good deal. We had a plan in place; it’s just that Hastings—!”

“Don’t even mention that nut job in my presence!” Jeff wanted to duck his sweaty scalp at the immediate rebuke, but couldn’t when his boss pinned him with a glare. Instead, he was forced to follow the remote being stabbed at the TV. “Even SNL, bottom of the barrel scum, think that asshole you’re taking seriously is a joke!”

The screen was also too terrified to defy Barry, and immediately powered on at the appropriate channel. Fortuitously flickering to the rerun of Reed Hastings and his dumbass youtube apology getting mocked by SNL - and the entire world besides. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Jeff himself was spewing vitriol at ‘em earlier - or maybe just vino.

There was an excellent reason for the fresh splatter of cabernet on the white wall beside the TV. 

“Netflix will bounce back, Barry! It has to.” Jeff wasn’t sure he was trying to reassure anyone but himself at this point. “So many of our partner production houses have a vested interest in its success. Maybe all we gotta do is take a beat and wait out this freefall.” There had to—there just had to be an upside here somewhere…

“Oh, yeah? Is that so? Then explain to me why those same vested interests have been weeping waterfalls at me for the last few weeks! Stop jerking me around. How much?” 

The knife in his ribs twisted harder when Jeff realised Barry already knew the numbers. “Is that necessary?” Jeff could only wheeze out his reluctance.

“Damn right it is. I want to hear you say it aloud.” Too bad Barry demanded he bleed. “Hop in with whoever you want, but don’t shit the bed. That’s always been the rule. I’ll hazard that your personal side of the mattress isn’t covered in rose petals either, Jeff. How much of your own coffers have you flushed down the toilet?”

If it weren’t for his recently helium-light wallet keeping him afloat, Jeff seriously doubted he’d be standing.

Downtrends. Red lines in his portfolio painted his mood in the same hue. This was all Bas’ fault—why or how was immaterial. Finger pointing was best reserved when someone wasn’t there to defend themselves from getting thumbed behind their back. “If anyone’s gotta be blamed, it’s Bas Rhys! He was supposed to be our pet dog, but then he goes around shaking his tail-feathers, and Netflix wandered in while trying to sniff his ass. Those mutts wouldn’t have even been on my radar without Rhys.” Why couldn’t he ever just do what he was told!?

“Really? Passing the buck to a boy who was suckling tits well after you’d already syphoned millions out of WB tax obligations? That’s the bullshit stance you’re gonna take?”

Barry’d be unable to comprehend without meeting Bas. “Sounds crazy, I get it. Trust me, though. Kid’s got a way of burrowing in your brain and staying there. Nobody else plagues my mind the way he does—”

“—Hey… Leave that crap on Epstein island.” Barry stepped away from him and threw him a queer grimace.

“No!” As in, he didn’t intend that bent. Neither he nor his denial wanted anything to do with the Lolita Express, no matter how many times Adam Venit spotted him an invitation. “I meant you gotta experience him for yourself to believe.” 

Bas was a—well—bastard. Probs in the dictionary literal definition sense, too. Stubborn, difficult, and constantly chaffing under any real or perceived bridle; but always the main attraction because of his attitude. A bronco that every horseman and their mothers were prepared to try their luck with. He needed a firm hand at the reins and a strong spank at his ass to keep him in line. Jeff hedged Barry was just the pair of spurs to keep Bas at the head of their entertainment cavalry, and Jeff would finally have the regal steed his dynasty deserved.

Barry’s sigh filtered oxygen back into Jeff’s lungs. “Can’t believe my legacy hinges on the guy gunning after my job.” Jeff only allowed himself to breathe again after Barry marched out of his office. “Fine. One shot. Get him in here tomorrow; I don’t care what it takes.”

–

“I guess the old saying is true! You either die a hero, or live long enough to become the villain! You’re pretty much unrecognisable as Harry Potter, Bas.” The mic in the entertainment reporter’s hand might as well have been a potato for all the good it was doing receiving clear audio. 

Screeching biddies were as typically overboard for Bas as usual. His face was plastered all over the ‘step and repeat’ vinyl backdrop, but they still couldn’t get enough of him. The Disney and Uniqlo logos were token additions. The real sponsor was obvious.

It was like pawns had checkmated the entire field. Image was straight outta Jeff’s drea—nightmares!

The doe-eyed starlet fawning over Bas could probably relate. “This premiere is essentially his debut as much as mine! Don’t let the prop specs fool you. I think the run up to our film certified that Bas is buck wild.”

“Many of your fans might question why the departure? What compelled you to pivot from your defined archetype?”

“Chill, people! Despite insinuating the opposite, I’ve got morals, thanks very much. In fact, that’s sort of the whole reason I took on this role. I’m doing what every child star’s been successfully doing since the start of Hollywood. Concocting a breakout performance by relying heavily on hyper-violence, sexuality, and substance abuse to separate myself from my PG roots. Only difference is, I’m also tryna gift-wrap a moral of the story for my impressionable audience. Obsession with the wrong thing will ruin you.” What a crock! Jeff hadn’t caught a screening, and damned if he was gonna waste his time with this preachy nonsense now.

Barry, if the remote contemplatively tapping on his chin was any indication, ain’t agree with Jeff’s silent assessment. “I’d been led to believe your PR skills were lacklustre at best. You’ve got ‘em eating out of the palm of your hands.”

“High praise from the mayor of WB.” Was this idiot really making puns with the most powerful man in WB’s name? Jeff refused to deny he wanted Bas’ balls in his fist, but he may have to hit the gym before he was strong enough to lift those orbs of steel.

This… may backfire.

Admittedly, becoming persona non grata within his own seat of power was a deeply disconcerting sensation. Neither his boss, nor Bas, paid him any mind as they spoke brass tacks.

“Opening week?”

“Crossed thirty mill.” What?

“Projected lifetime box office?”

Right around three-fifty million.” What!?

“Budget?”

“Twenty-seven, by my estimate. Completely out of my own pocket, FYI.” Oh, he couldn’t let him toot his own trumpet anymore.

Jeff had to say something. “Fweet! Tasty numbers, kid. But hear that whistle blowing in the wind? Means none of it exists in a vacuum. Cinemas still gotta take their cut, and the mouse charges his own fee for his Midas touch, yeah? Forget distribution, I bet their print and advertising bill’s gonna be fatter than your final cheque.” Ha! Bet that’ll lance that boil inflating the top of his head.

“Meh. Inconsequential. An ad campaign here, a publicity stunt there; my personal efforts and connects got butts in seats, not anything Disney or anyone else did.” It stuck in Jeff’s craw that even that last sting wasn’t enough to get the little shit to fully look his way beyond a dismissive shrug. Barry was glaring at him instead, though.

The amiable tone he adopted when re-addressing Bas didn’t fill him with confidence, either. This was reverse psychology, no? Get him to drop his guard before spilling his guts, right?

“Making your accomplishment even more impressive. Which begs the question, why approach Disney at all? Surely we could have offered similar terms here at WB?”

That relaxed posture he’d had since he’d first swanned into the room shifted. Bas’ loose arm fell away from the backrest, the single heel dangling lazily off of his other knee planted itself on the hardwood, and he sat up straighter sans his insufferable smirk. Neither Jeff nor Barry had bothered stooping to his level, but despite the height disparity, Bas’ sudden serious change gave the illusion he was looming over them now, instead. “I’m on the hook with Disney for a role I’d really rather not do - without recourse, mind. I’m locked in. That is still a far fairer circumstance than the indentured servitude your boy here expected me to gleefully prostrate myself for.”

Jeff got his wish, Bas was paying him due attention. Infuriatingly, it took the form of Bas peering balefully down his nose at Jeff. 

Shame, anger, then fear when Barry also narrowed his brow at him. “What is he talking about, Robinov?”

Twig Jeff’s beak and try to get away with it, would he? Fine. If that was how it’s gonna be, he’d hook two fingers up the snot-nosed sprat’s nostrils and see how long he held out. “Bas is just being a cliche, Barry. A drama queen, seriously? I tried handing you the keys to an entertainment empire, Bas. Movies, TV, endorsements, rep. You would’ve had it if you’d only ditched the losers clutching your coattails and kissed the ring a bit. You have no concept of just how valuable the offer I made you was.”

“Value? What value? Two of the biggest new IPs you launched this year flopped. Green Lantern—make any money off that? Or how about Red Riding Hood? You know, the same flick you gave Yates as a bribe after he almost helped sabotage Potter. Did that resonate with the cultural zeitgeist yet? Meanwhile, I’m not gonna be making two-thirds of the box office, but the commas and decimals are marginal post two-hundred million. Incidentally, I’m pretty sure that’s more than my cumulative salary for all eight Potter movies while only raking in a fraction of one film.”

It was getting harder and harder to maintain his tone for Jeff when Bas stayed breezy, despite the scathing tilt of his words. “As if you’re the arbiter of success, Rhys. If it weren’t for you, we would’ve never gotten entangled with Netflix.”

“Nice to hear I’m finally getting the credit I’m owed for that. You’d been harping on voraciously about your coup a while back, yeah?” This orphan motherfucker! “Netflix is still a solid service. Your library of old films getting dusted off and watched would agree. Lemme guess,” something in Bas’ unfettered expression told Jeff he wasn’t guessing at all. “Tried to make a quick buck on the stock, which failed. And now you’re getting buyer’s remorse. I’m holding because I still know I can help turn this ship around, but it’ll take me years. Especially after the bloodbath yet to come.”

He was lying! “Elaborate.” That’s right, Barry. Torture the truth out of him!

“Q3 earnings reports scheduled for a couple weeks later; I got the preview. Stocks gonna go kaboom—nearly a million subscribers cancelled just this past quarter. If you’re down on it, I’d call your broker now and tell him to offload.” No, no, no, no! His knees buckled at the gravity of the situation. “That leveraged, huh?”

Barry’s heavy, disapproving presence, coupled with the weight of all the fat stacks he’d liposuction’d out of his own accounts, forced him to stumble into a chair and his head to tumble into his hands.

“Indeed, Bas. But together I sense an opportunity for us to each achieve certain mutual goals. You desire greater creative control over Netflix, WB wishes to reduce its financial risk. I believe we can work something out here.”

“I don’t see how bailing you out benefits me in any way.” 

“Because I would authorise that same freed money be allocated towards funding your next project here at WB. Pick of the litter. You’ve done a damned impressive job on your own. Now allow me to personally demonstrate what the full might of my legacy can accomplish for the both of us.”

“I’m… not opposed. Business is business, I reckon. But given the track record, I’ll need certain guarantees. Let’s start by no longer holding Mad Max Fury Road hostage. That’s a massive box office just being left to rot.”

“That can definitely be arranged. Now come along, son. We can hash out the details elsewhere. Have you met Kevin Tsujihara? You both have a bright future ahead here at Warner.”

Bas nor Barry had wasted a moment during Jeff’s crisis. The last word they’d said to him was the punctuated clack of Jeff’s own stately office door being shut on him as they walked out. 

For want of a nail, Jeff had just heard the echoing thump of his career ambitions being hammered closed right before him. Barry couldn’t have made his decision to snatch CEO away from Jeff any clearer. “The king is dead.”

All because he’d made the mistake again to hyper-fixate on the wrong person. Well, Bas could rest assured—he’d won. Jeff wanted nothing to do with him anymore. He lumbered back on his feet and shuffled over to his desk. He opened that drawer where he kept Bas’ profile.

It went straight into the trash. “Long live the fucking king.”