Chapter 63: King Kong Ain’t Got Shit On Me!

Chapter 63: King Kong Ain’t Got Shit On Me!

WB Headquarters, Beverly Hills. April 2011.

Victory.

Victory wasn’t a grand moment in the sun. Neither was it a bruised fist raised over the prostrate form of an enemy. And it most certainly wasn’t the friends we made along the way. 

Not in this town, that’s for sure.

No.

Victory was simply a risk paid off. A dangerous gamble made with your life at stake, where you cast yourself into the abyss and pray that you somehow bounce back. 

Jeff Robinov finally, finally, recovered his rightful place at the top of the podium. 

For months, he’d tried to play what games he could; play any piece in reach, and roll every dice on the board.

Despite everything, though, turn after turn, Jeff could only roll snake eyes. He’d made an honest attempt to cajole, and he’d laid the hammer down to control, yet Bas proved himself a viper. 

Spitting venom at his sound advice, blindly letting leeches sink their fangs into him and drink him dry of his lifeblood.

Like Specter - that WME reject. Adam Venet was the far better option. That man had ambition - one that aligned with Jeff’s own when it came to Bas’ box office potential. Too damn bad that skank was shacking up with Bas, from what Jeff knew. Why else would Bas not just buy his own place and remain so loyal to her?

Whoever Bas’ spineless, no-name number jockey riding his coattails was is also a problem. Didn’t the fella know you gotta spend money to make money? Jeff never even got a Chinese whisper of Bas doing a single thing with his cash other than letting it sit. Hadn’t amounted to more than a glorified savings account for what he’d done with Bas’ money, as far as Jeff was concerned. 

Then there was that frumpy old bitch hounding his star’s every single step. If Bas wanted a maid, why the hell hadn’t he hired a bang-able one? Wasn’t that the point of them? Jeff could’ve easily sourced just that service for Bas - they were a dime a dozen ‘round these parts. 

And those beggars. Don’t even get him started on those fuckin’ kids from Bas’ old life. Street rats across the pond pick-pocketing Bas like some sucker. Bas had moved up in the world, but still he allowed that so-called ‘mother’ of his to take advantage of the boy’s misplaced umbilical cord. 

Krrkkrk! Jeff clenched his fist so firmly that his knuckles audibly popped.

“What was that?” As much as Jeff was itching to thump skulls, better heads had to prevail. He was among polite company.

“Probs just the studio building settling. We’re on shaky foundations, apparently. Don’t worry about it, Reed. It’s nothing - let’s get back to work.” Hastings was back in his office for the both of them to hash out the finer details on their deal.

Bas, at the best of times, was a bag of angry cats. But there was also brilliance in him. It was part of the reason Jeff was so adamant about chaining Bas to his side.

This growing relationship with WB and Netflix? Masterstroke. 

While he himself was the one straining to launch their collaboration into the stratosphere, Jeff had to admit that without Bas’ groundwork, there’d be nothing. 

Work which Jeff was now aiming to turn around and use on Bas’ ass 

“So, we’ve received plenty of interest from the other parties and studios you’ve put us in touch with, Jeff. It’s gonna take time - months at the earliest - for any actionable PR. Everyone wants to stream, but we’re in for difficult discussions before we can agree on equitable deals for everyone involved. I’m hopeful, though.”

“And my cut?” Frankly, Jeff was glad to hear it. But he’d laboured for everyone else’s benefit; right now, he only cared to hear about his reward.

“Bas thankfully retains his seat on the board, which means preferred shares are still locked. Ted assures me that Bas stays committed to Netflix. One of the few times he or anyone on the exec team’s given me a bit of good news instead of cribbing in my ear. Anyway, point being, his recent liquidation poses an opportunity for us to distribute the tons of free floating shares we now have.” 

Likely story, Jeff thought to himself. Higher chance of Bas throwing a hissy fit on George’s behalf or something equally asinine. Well, whatever, more for the Robinov fund. Personal fund.

George had taken the blow on his chin like a man, at least. Good that he’d found solace directing Limitless. Mad Max wasn’t gonna sell - not with Mel Gibson’s legacy being in the shitter these days. Miller was pissed, but he’d come around once he realised Jeff had only helped him prioritise. 

God, he’s good. Jeff could squeeze lemonade out of anything. A little sourness was par for the course. 

Speaking of. “We’ll talk more shop on the links, Hastings. I’ll see you out.” He stood up and Hastings stumbled on to his feet as he ushered Reed out of his office. 

“To a long-lasting partnership and to true friends.” At the threshold, Hastings stuck his palm out for him.

“You bet.” 

As the door cracked shut, Jeff returned to his desk and pinged his secretary on the intercom. “Clear my schedule. I don’t wanna be disturbed for a bit.” Jeff didn’t bother hearing her affirmation before clicking off.

He dropped his hand to the piles of paper with a satisfied sigh.

A slow smile creeped across his face as he shuffled through the sheafs of contracts, scripts, and other irrelevant nonsense before he stroked his thumb over his prize.

Flipping the dossier open, Jeff glimpsed Bas’ preteen headshot stapled to his profile. Years of data collection and careful analysis. If only Jeff had the opportunity to influence when he was still that young, innocent, and naïve.

But he wouldn’t have to wait any longer. “I got you.” 

Key aspects of the superstar’s personality: drive, determination to pursue it, and the devotion to see things through to the end, even when he ought not to. All Bas needed was the direction Jeff could provide.

Another knuckle cracking fist pounded the table through Bas’ profile and polaroid. “I!” Wham! “Got!” Wham! “You!” Wham! Folded, crumpled, and thoroughly stamped. 

Bas, like Jeff, wasn’t one to let anything under his perceived ownership go. Stubborn. Netflix was the first step - first knot on the leash he was ready to clamp around Bas’ neck. 

Bas would come crawling back. He was too vested and had made the mistake of selling off his take alongside his voice. Probably hadn’t heard the last of George or Mad Max, either.

Jeff would help him out. They could bring this streaming empire to new heights together, too. He wasn’t so petty he’d lose out on a fat cheque. 

In exchange? Well… Bas had better be prepared flaunt his face according, precisely, to Jeff’s itinerary.

Once secured, Jeff’s boss Barry Meyer would have no choice to oust that squint Tsujihara and make him CEO of Warner in totality, as soon as he retires. Bas’ success would be the vehicle that delivers him that fuckin’ chair that was owed to Jeff.

He slammed open the door to his balcony, surveyed the Hollywood hills that would soon - oh, so soon - be his. Clear skies cast a bright, beaming spotlight on Jeff’s kingdom. 

His chest was fit to bursting. He had to do something. Steamy breaths surged out of his nose as he held himself on the edge of hyperventilation.

Unconsciously, almost reflexively, his arms rose. He was set to be the biggest, baddest silverback in Tinseltown. It was time he showed it. “RaArgH!” He beat his breast while screaming with every ounce of triumphant release. “I GOT YOU!”

–

Macau Tower, Macau. April 2011.

I’ve had a fair few flings in my life, especially recently. 

For anyone witness to my wanton ways, I was far from inconspicuous with my promiscuity. 

But at heart, I was fastidious and faithful in my affections. Stable like a horse. Hung like one, too - or so I’m told. Usually when it’s yelled into pillows. 

So, even if I may stray occasionally, I always retraced my meandering path to return to her. My one true love; who, in spite of my many faults (and ignorant of my few virtues I possessed) would forevermore welcome me back.

She was hugging me. So tightly - fiercely. Constricting enough to pause one’s breathing. Every inhalation was a struggle. The lack of oxygen reminded me of altitude sickness - blood pumping empty; similar to anaemia. Even so, I stood stalwart in her safe arms. My head rested firmly in the clouds and I was happy to lay it there.

“Bas! Step away from there - right now!” Anita was shouting at me. How predictable. 

Unfortunately, like the shoddy international connection on the video call, I was static. “Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you, Anita. Perhaps focus on your Hawaiian tan.” 

“Someone yank that tether and pull his belligerent butt back inside! Fedex!” 

“Yes, ma’am” A quick nod and a proverbial prod was all it took for the attendant to tug the elastic band attached to my jingling carabiners.

Reinforced polyester dug into my skin. I dutifully followed my beloved stunt harness off the eight-hundred-foot tall tower ledge. “Don’t worry, my darling. I know it’s been ages, but they’ll never keep us apart again.”

“You’re making me second guess my decision, Bas. Maybe we still have time to return to LA and shoot this sequence indoors. What’s a little CGI?” America was a land ruled by insurance. George and I were equally dissatisfied with our production provider’s constant denials, as well as the less urban locale that we could source for the bungee jump back in the States. 

“Don’t book that ticket just yet, Miller. Let’s not spurn Macau’s hospitality so quickly.” I gestured over to the crew that we’d easily gotten the license to shoot here for with an extendable crane. Far less red tape. “If I’m to die doing this, who better than you to film it?” Yellow tape was more my reckless speed.

“Fedex, smack him for me.” 

“You have a disease, Bas.” Neither she nor I flinched when Fed followed through.

Any visible injuries were prosthetically painted on my pretty face. “Excuse you. I am a disease.” 

George groaned. 

Jury’s out whether it was my fault or Migraine’s. “It is of no matter, Bas. If no one else, I will capture every frame of your descent. It shall be a wonderful addition to the collection!” He eagerly spoke through the peephole of his camera.

He’d invited himself when I revealed my impending gambling trip. Less at the Venetian’s casino, and more at the Macau Tower tumble.

“~ I’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease. A daring young man on the flying trapeze. ~” Attempting to add levity (figurative rather than literal in this instance) to the situation, I spontaneously belted out an apt tune.

Then Fedex chimed in with her own verse. “Do not sing, Bas. It is preferable that your famous last words be so horrific, no?” A hymn she’d recited from my version of the bible, I’m sure. 

“Why have we been brought here? Only to suffer?” George persisted, despite his undoubtedly throbbing temples. “Bas, mate, listen. I’ve a real hankering for practical effects. And the urban city lights here are a gorgeous visual - just what I want. But you’re far more important than a solitary stunt. I promise, mate, I won’t think any less if you back out. We don’t need the last scene of the movie to be your curtain call, too.”

“If we’re going to do this, please begin. It is almost too dark to do the jump.” The attendant gave his final call.

And I gave mine. “Yeah… Yeah, let’s do this.” One foot down in front of the other, I spread my arms out and balanced back onto the protruding steel pillar. “Avert neither your attention nor your equipment, people.”

“Is there really nothing that’ll convince you otherwise, Bas? Why are you going so far?” Anita pled herself as everyone’s spokesperson.

But the farther I got, until I dangled my toes over the edge, the bustling breeze plugged my ears to it. 

The question was valid - necessary, too. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t something I’d already been marinating on. I had a distorted sense of danger - it was true. Ergo, it often behooved me to allow others to set boundaries for me. 

But not here, and not now. I knew what I had to do.

“Do you remember what made me famous, Anita? Potter, yes. But before that, I had to take a risk to just get an audition.” The wind was loud up here, forcing me to more than whisper. It felt as if I was announcing my honest intentions to the entire neon city in front of me - to make the world understand. “I stole a mop, clambered onto the highest platform, and dove off. That splash in the pool rippled into a wave I’m still riding. It marked a new stage in my life and sealed my ultimate fate. One I am so utterly, wretchedly grateful for.” 

Staring at the incandescent ants below instead of the emotional embarrassment behind me, I pressed on. “I don’t know if I’ll ever capture that lightning again, but I’m incapable of resting on my laurels either. So, please, don’t stop me.” I held my head high and twirled on my heel in preparation to lean back. “I have so much more left in me.”

As I faced them, I received no scolding, and no more hand-holding. Only thoughtful frowns and faux, thin-lipped smiles.

The attendant gave his final thumbs up of the night. Relief blew through me as I heard the last word I wanted George to say. “Action!”

[Standing deathly still on the precipice, air fluttered my untucked, bloodstained shirt and tussled trousers layered above my harness.

I adopted Eddie’s guilt over his blacked-out murders, the fear of an avenging father, and the sheer regret of ending up a cautionary tale. 

All of it played across my face. My eyes closed with an uneven, stilted exhale. 

I accepted it all and tilted back. Gravity would take Eddie to his grave. The camera followed.]

Immediately, my hair whipped, and gale force battered against my crushing sinuses. That pitted sensation of weightlessness in the center of my chest assaulted me. 

Stifling the whooping cheer I wanted to let out, I plummeted.

Freedom. And as I opened my eyes and saw the broadening horizon of stars, I felt my future was truly - well…

Limitless.