Chapter 61.5: Shots Fired Up

Chapter 61.5: Shots Fired Up

Bunker Hill, LA. February 2011.

Seal your lips, and speak not my name for I am no longer answering to Bas Rhys. Call me Eddie Morra - in fact, better yet, Daffy is now who and what I am. Because I finally had all my ducks in a row for Limitless. 

Contracts were signed, cheques were cashed, and crews were on-boarded. Which finally meant we were able to drop the pre from production.

The mood was effervescent. Ping! See? Even my cellie was vibrating with excitement. Reaching into my pocket, I unlocked my phone to see Ted Sarandos had sent a photo to the group chat of the Netflix team popping champagne on our behalf. 

Pointing my camera at the swank apartment we’d rented as the set for this scene, I clicked a picture of George Miller as he bounced in his shoes, flitting hither and dither, putting the final checks on all kit and kaboodle, and pasted it as a reply. 

Ben Wyatt, with his constantly reappearing ellipses, was likely the only one of us not in a celebratory state of mind. Each bubble, both floating in the flutes and on his indecisive thumbs, represented another zero he was fretting over, hoping they would pop. After all, it was my bank account financing our collective ambition. Eventually, though, he responded. When I saw a simple peace emoji instead of the dollar stack emoticon he undeniably resisted the urge to send, I remained as buoyed as I had been at the start of our first day on set demanded.

I could think of no better way of accomplishing that than playing tunes. Shifting over to my music player, I connected to a pair of nearby speakers, hit shuffle and let the good times roll. My controlling stake authorised my finger on the pulse.

“If you were going to play ’Under Pressure’, could you not have at least selected the Queen and Bowie version?” Alfie Allen announced his displeasure from the bedroom the makeup team had usurped. I walked in on him strapped to his chair, wincing and wishing that the bullet wound getting painted on his forehead was real.

I instead bobbed mine happily to the beat. “What can I say except I’m cold as ice ice, baby?”

“Should have known that would have been a catch-22 working with you. My gut was telling me: ‘no, Alfie, this all sounds way too good to be true!’ Had I any idea of your horrendous taste in music, I’d have sooner gone and reconciled with my sister.” 

“Either way, your ears’ll bleed. With me, at least you’re getting paid.”

“Point. On a serious note though, Bas, thanks for this opportunity - I mean it. This is the first role I’ve ever not had to audition for, so it’s fairly special for me too.”

Oh no. How dare he speak to me this way? And the banter was going so well, too. He just had to spoil it by plummeting into praise. The sheer gall, honestly! I turned my attention to the stylist dabbing a paintbrush on his brow. “Let me know if we have enough chapstick, we’re probably gonna need to restock after he’s done kissing my ass.” She nearly slipped at my unexpected comment, almost painting an unscripted gash across his affronted face. “Save it for the press tour, will you?”

“Was that really necessary? Just take the bloody compliment!” Alfie was a swell bloke, but believe it or not, puppy-dog-eyes from his mug wasn’t particularly endearing - I hired him for a reason.

“Never.” Still, I wasn’t someone who would repay gratitude with insult, so I swallowed my inherent aversion. “Tell you what, though; if you want to, you can return the favour. I enjoyed the books, so I wouldn’t mind sliding my bookmark on the show either. Put in a good word for me with Game of Thrones, and I’ll call us even.”

“You sure? It’s not even out yet, it could be complete dog shite for all you know.” Come April, he’d realise how foolish that comment truly was.

“Somehow I doubt that. Plus, when Momoa and I had a chat about his experience, he said he had a blast.”

“Of course he’d say that - his parts of the script basically had him either fighting, fucking, or feasting. Not to mention, he was off catching rays at a resort in Malta.” His tan was rather reminiscent of a malteser in hindsight. “While I was turning into a popsicle in a tent in Ireland; which is nearer to where you’ll probably be as well. Still want in?”

“Why not?” I shrugged.

“I don’t need quiet on set, but I do need that racket turned off. Bas and Alfie, get your butts in gear!” George hollered for us two to make our way to the purposely disarrayed living-room set. 

“But for now,” I switch off my grooves, “let’s focus on this first.”

The stylist tore off Alfie’s bib, patted his shoulder to permit him to get up, and ran one last hand between my hair to make it look perfectly dishevelled before allowing us to exit her domain. 

George meticulously cast all four of his eyes over the both of us. “Stellar. You’re as corpse-ish as I wanted,” he granted Alfie his place, slumped over dead by the couch, “and you’re as crazed as a junkie ought to be.” At his nod, I walked to my marker.

Each stride of mine shed a little bit of myself. My cool glide transformed into a stuttering shuffle, and breezy breaths hyperventilated into panicked puffs. George, quick to catch my feather-ruffled, in-character state, hurriedly tussled his way back to his chair and cut the ribbon on our first shot. “Lights! Camera! Action!”

[ I squatted low, my nose mere inches away from my drug dealer’s bleeding head, as my dead-eyed stare bore into his lifeless gaze. Despite my eyes already being open, a flutter of my eyelashes only now blinked me awake. 

The camera panned in from a low angle. Zooming in until the closeup was extreme enough to capture my stilted breath battering against the scraggly bristles of his facial hair. The cinematographer steadily tilted the camera on its axis into a Dutch angle, signifying my slanted emotional condition. 

I hesitantly raised my hand towards his neck. I placed my palm by his jugular, where rivulets of congealing blood flowed down from his shattered skull. Instead of checking for a pulse, I pushed him aside where he flopped on the ground, and I went rabidly digging between the sofa cushions. 

“Where is it? Where is it - where is it - where izzit!?” Spittle flew out of my mouth, foam sprung out of torn fabric, and lint dug itself under my nail beds as I desperately searched for his hidden stash of NZT. It wasn’t there. “You should’ve just sold it to me.” I trod over his corpse and proceeded to turn the rest of his condo over, searching for my fix with a clatter of tumbling glassware and screeching furniture. “How did we even get here?” That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I legitimately had no recollection.

The lens caught every twitch of my erratic jaunt across the apartment, until I found his secret cache of cash, a little black book of contacts, and, most importantly, a hefty stockpile of NZT. 

Heaving a massive sigh of relief, I collapsed on the only seat left un-upturned. The same sofa sprayed with his brain matter. 

My pulse was threading. I hugged the plastic packet to my chest, one foot dangling on the drug dealer’s hip like some macabre ottoman. Deep gasps disguised Alfie’s shallow, silent sniffs. He’d kept in character throughout my callous improvisation. I pinched the bridge of my nose as if staving off a headache, while Alfie resisted the burning his dried out pupils were suffering through. 

Calmer now, I fumbled through the ziplock baggie and pulled out a pill. I held it up at eye level - to me and the camera both. 

It was like a thick contact lens. Small, see-through, convex. My miniature head reflected and rotated inside its insidious curve. “I might blackout again. I won’t remember again, either. But…” I peeked at the bleeding body beneath me, “would that be so bad?”

My bloodstained fingers seeped latex dye into the prop placebo. I clutched it tight between my fingertips, opened my mouth wide, and tossed it down the hatch. Shutting my eyes again, I savoured the cannibalistic flavour of cornstarch and encroaching self-destruction. 

In the last fading moments of my medicative state, I sanguinely reflected how I absolutely must get my hands on “more.” Conspicuously tucking the handbook and wad of cash into my pockets, I stood up and woke up for the second time. With a new pair of eyes, I surveyed the mess I’d made. “Better clean up.” The cops needed to only think I reported the crime instead of perpetrating it when I called it in. ]

“Pack it in, fellas!” George blared out, as Alfie splayed out and took a well deserved inhale. “We might not even need the full extent of the next two-and-a-half months if you two brilliant boys keep acting this way. Well done! C’mon, we’ll shoot a few more takes for posterity.”

“Just let me catch my breat- woah!.” 

“I can help with that.” Grabbing him by the ankles, I dragged Alfie away as the production assistants rushed in to reset the stage.

“Oi! Save that energy for the NZT scene. You and seventeen of your twins are gonna by lugging him around during the composite filming. Don’t wear yourself out yet, Bas.”

“Don’t worry, George. We can do this all week, yeah?” I asked Alfie, who just accepted himself being rag dolled around, who forlornly replied to the ceiling.

 “… I should call my sister.”

–

Warner Brothers Entertainment, Beverly Hills. February, 2011.

“I heard Bas Rhys started filming this week.” Jeff Robinov adored his desk. It was a heavy slab of wood that did a great job of hiding his bouncing heel. He didn’t want the effort, and WD-40, his secretary polished his chair with to go to waste. No squeaks or creaks sounded to shatter his image of nonchalance as he leaned lazily back.

“Oh? I didn’t realize you were involved at all.” Jeff carefully eyed Reed Hastings, the CEO of Netflix, as he struggled to find a comfortable spot in his seat.

“I’m not. Just keeping my ear to the ground. I’m invested in Bas’ success in my own way.” If only his rebellious streak wouldn’t blemish their mutual benefit. Jeff had tried the direct, the polite, approach - but Bas had rebuffed him, gone behind his back, and dealt him a tough hand. Therefore, Jeff won’t blame himself for playing it underhanded.

And Reed Hastings would be his dealer. “Hey, so are we! Big things are happening at Netflix. It’s a pretty big year we have planned all round, actually.” 

“Good, good. That’s music to my ears. We’ll, of course, have to flip through whatever your financial guys slap on a prospectus. But while the WB number crunchers do that busy work, you and I can talk on real terms.” Jeff propped his elbows on his desk and hunched over. “Your streaming platform is growing?”

Reed eagerly wrung his palms together. “Sure is. It’s rapidly become our flagship offering, and I think by this summer I’ll be going all in on it. My team isn’t yet fully convinced, but I’m gonna push it through, regardless. My damn company, after all.”

Jeff involuntarily smirked. It felt like ages since anyone spoke his language. “My kinda attitude. You must have reservations - everybody has to. Think you have enough of a catalogue for your consumer base to not complain?”

“I believe so. Penning our deal with WB has only bolstered our pre-existing contracts - and now that we’re branching out into original programming, I think we’ve got a robust offering. Although…”

“Never hurts to have more, huh?” Jeff completed Reed’s sentence for him. Jeff and Reed both knew where this conversation was headed. “Hmm, I’m sure I can arrange something. Right now, we’ve only supplied you with rights to our internal IPs. We still have plenty of production companies we’re partnered with. Legendary Pictures, RatPac-Dune, New Line Cinema… Village Roadshow, too. Loads. I’m certain I can get them to pony up their libraries and their wallets if we see a future together.” And if they have to - Jeff amusingly thought to himself - waylay funds away from some specific projects in development hell, he’s sure they’d prefer making money over continuing to toss it down a hole. 

There’s no such thing as commitments in Hollywood. George Miller might unfortunately feel the squeeze - but hey, at least he’s got his movie with Bas to tide him over.