Chapter 58.5: Rhysky Bidness

Chapter 58.5: Rhysky Bidness

Industrial Warehouse, Burbank California. December 2010.

Ever go sundry stocking at the supermarket with your mum as a child? Then you may very well understand the two agonies that come as a consequence.

First and foremost is getting abandoned at the checkout line. The trouser-shitting terror of a normally listless teenager suddenly, and spitefully, perking up the moment they encounter an unsupervised child. Beep after beep of maliciously manic price scanning driving your blood pressure sky-high, while grumbling patrons with their carts full of groceries threaten to pound your prepubescent posterior into the ground. All because mummy dearest was busy waxing poetic in the scented candle aisle. 

The greater trauma, though, the one that leaves lasting scars across timelines and lifelines are… the sales.

Discount signboards waving their low, low percentages being raised as the banners of war. A rain of scissor-cut coupons and gift cards, the currency that sociopathically financed this sociopolitical upheaval. Innocent children flailed and flung by their dislocated arms in-between the crossfire of clashing carts pelting price-slashed produce, the true bloody cost.

It was enough to give anybody PTSD - definitely ain't a condition retail therapy could fix. These buyers had no remorse.

“Man alive! Just look at these deals! An Arri Alexa - near brand new and barely used!” A seriously lucky find, in my opinion. This particular model, from my advanced research, is essentially future proofed for another handful of years yet. It was a principle camera that’d be used in movies like John Wick and Kingsman, to name an iconic few. Ultimately, I knew it’d be good for eye-popping colours and neck-breaking action. “We’d be fools not to buy this - I mean, the bundle alone is worth the price!” My claws greedily scrounged through the about-to-be scarpered second hand camera equipment on display. 

While my scared companion scrambled to get me to scale back on my choice of attention. “Base camera unit price seventy-five grand, prime lens set another forty-five grand. Digital storage, cables, chargers, follow focus, tripod, and stabilizer rig, collectively another thirty grand. One hundred and fifty thousand of your dollars. For just one out of the three combined case bundle they’re offering this off as.” Each time Ben listed an item and its adjoining cost, he marked with a shed-hair tally via his proverbially balding head. 

If it wasn’t already clear, according to my analogy, Ben was the distressed child, and I, his abusive parent, in this scenario. 

“I know, isn’t it aces? And check it out, they’ve also got a fully operational jimmy jib, and a dolly system, too - with the tracks included!” Too bad for him, but I’d already busied myself stuffing my nose in different candles. 

And even worse for Ben, the cashier had also made himself available. “Not a terrible deal at all. If you manage to snag it for under half a mill total, I’d consider it a bargain.” Ted Sarandos, Netflix’s current chief content officer, casually observed. “How good or bad depends entirely on whomever is better with their paddle, eh?”

Ben sighed - click - and frustratedly popped the nib of his ballpoint pen out by pressing the button on his forehead. “Fine… lot number fifty-eight, right?” He scribbled the note onto a flippy pad. 

Meanwhile, I’d also flipped out by taking a stance where I was standing, and started swinging the little cardboard racquet I’d been handed on entry to the showroom like an Olympic level ping-pong player. “Let’s see anyone beat me out for this. I’ll bend ‘em over and swat away at their butts with my paddle. They’ll be leaving sore, I promise you that.”

Auction was a lofty sounding term that conjured images of velvet blazers, flutes of champagne, and pretentious ponces doling out princely sums to launder the cash under the mint of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Not the case here. Miramax - well, arguably the hedge fund that bought it from Disney - was the sponsor of today’s event. They’d absorbed the brand, the properties, IPs, and anything else they deemed profitable. Auctioning any unwanted dregs to the unwashed masses, in an effort to recoup as much liquid cash after the purchase as possible. 

Playing around aside, it was actually rather important for me to get the most equitable deal. I, nor Ben for once, were penny pinching for the sake of it. Ted Sarandos’ presence was very much a contributing factor. 

“As long as we’re not the ones getting bent over and fucked. We have our limits. Remember that, Bas.” Ben was right. Regardless of how fat my wallet was, I had to operate under certain budgetary constraints.

Limitless wouldn’t be provided with unlimited funding. Thirty million dollars, on the absolute top end - twenty on the bottom. Both those figures were something Ben and I respectively were quite anal in agreeing upon. 

We’d recently gotten a rather intimate taste of just how expensive staffing alone could be. So we had to be thrifty wherever it mattered. 

Netflix was in bed with us, too. Their role skewed more towards brown-noser than a last member of a ménage à trois, however. Ted’s mission was to assess whether I was savvy enough to turn a profit. They didn’t yet have the coffers to waste on any mediocre mess. 

Netflix was officially entering its original content era. I finagled my stake in order to insert myself as one of the lynchpins - a privilege afforded to me as a member of the board. Ted was here to judge if it was a worthwhile investment - if I was.

“Still. Even if within our means, we’ve got to pony-up where it’s required. I’m a prime example of that. The amount I had to spend to shoo away HBO, Showtime, and AMC to get David Fincher and Kevin Spacey to hopefully bring the white house down for Netflix next year - it’s a serious gamble. One I’m hoping will also pay off with your project.” Each of us was building our own house of cards. Ted continued. “A lot is riding on your movie, not the least of which is our potential production partnership with you, B.” 

This culminated in a simple proposal: I would make a movie of my choice (in this case, limitless). The burden of production and the cinematic release fell on me. Marketing would be a collaborative effort. After the theatrical run, Netflix was then contractually obligated to put the movie up on their streaming library and pay me for the lease. After a given period of time, we’d analyse the metrics, and pending success, we’d carry on with a more robust deal from thereon.

First-look deals, co-production arrangements, whatever else I wanted would come later. I’d make certain of it.

My recent tussles with WB (as well as the wisdom found after shooting a few bullets) had solidified my itch for independence. The shopping cart I needed to be labouring behind had to be mine, and mine alone. 

If I wanted to lug jugs full of everything I’d milk them for and bring home the bacon; it was my responsibility to carry any heavy, skin-slicing plastic bags inside, all by myself. Additionally, this way I get the freedom to pursue anything I want, while also giving Netflix the confidence to get on the ground floor of whatever next avenue I pull out of my ass - not to mention, through their nose.

Proof of concept, with a steep price tag for the full product. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this in the bag.” I made my reassurances. 

Then was rudely muscled out of the way. “Fat chance, kid.” Big bodied, with bawdier gold jewelry. Tufts of chest hair messily poked above the collar of his shirt; while, in contrast, the sparse comb-over sitting on his head was slick backed to neatly hide the aftereffects of his obvious steroid use. Greaseball didn’t begin to cover the intruder who knocked into me. A mere glancing swipe was enough to urge me to hop behind the intercom and call for an oil spill on aisle douche.

I rapidly shook my head. Not out of a need to clear any circling canaries, but to stave off Fedex. Out of nowhere, she’d protectively sidled up next to me, and appeared about ready to give Mr Olympia a limp. She slunk away before he could notice.

Unaware of the unscrupulous agent ready to do him harm, he impatiently snapped his fingers at the mousy assistant trailing in his shadow. He pointed at the camera tech I’d set my sights on. “Add this to the list. Label: priority two-”

Reciprocating with equal tact, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, you dropped something.”

He whirled around. “What?” 

“Your manners.” So chose instead to remind him of something else. “A polite ‘excuse me’ would have sufficed.”

“This is my turf. Step off. You want any camera time, you’re gonna have to go through me.” He tried sizing up to me while growling, but he had more wingspan than height, so thought better of it when I stopped slouching and peered down at him. He tsked in annoyance, tried to bump me as he stormed off, but stumbled and stomped away when I dodged with an easy sway of my torso. 

“Charming personality, no?” Fedex appeared again.

“Hmm. Encountering a barking dog shouldn’t surprise you. We’re all scavenging for table scraps, after all.” And that mutt was about to discover what it’s like to bite off more than he could chew.

My consigliera and I exchanged furtive glances. She slashed a thumb across her neck. I shook my head no and flicked my earlobe instead. Fed nodded in assent, and traced his footsteps.

“She’s not gonna kill him… is she?” Ben was already calculating criminal attorney fees. 

“No. She’ll just figure out what he wants.”

“Why?”

You’ve got to be careful shopping; have your wits about you. Sometimes the deals you think you’ve found end up being total duds. Peel back the sale sticker and you just might find that the original MSRP was the real discount. Finding out you overpaid is a swift kick to the undercarriage. “So that I can give it to him.”

We roamed around a bit longer, examining each item up for bid across the anteroom, until the PA system crackled to life.

“Please return to the main floor and find a seat. The auction is about to begin with lot number one.”

Fedex beckoned us over to the row of seats she’d left open by her side. I sunk into the one bordering hers. “Deets.”

“Owner operator of a freelance filming equipment rental company.” A common business in this town. “Seeking to expand his catalogue. He has a six hundred k to throw.”

“Damn.” A solid twenty percent above my capped budget. I’d have to get devious if I wanted my stuff.

My hand stayed still, but my leg bobbed as the auctioneer auctioned off item after item. “Next up for bid, lot fifty-seven. Vicon motion capture with sixty camera rigs. Complete with mocap software and suit. We’ll start the bidding at two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars.”

“This is the one.” Fedex leaned in and whispered. 

I swerved my head until I spotted him aggressively stamping the air with every other bid, faster than even the breathless auctioneer could keep up. Determined to deter anybody else with his tenacious temper.

“Three-hundred-and-forty thousand dollars, going once…” No more paddles flew up. 

The buttery smile that spread across his face was too smooth for my liking. I should scrape it off. Let us partake, shall we? “Tree fiddy.” I dipped my paddle, forcing him to whip in my direction. 

He locked his eyes on mine, gritted his rippling jaw, and stabbed his hand into the air. “Three sixty!” He sought to turn his fortunes back around.

Ben was also on the verge of spitting at me. “That’s not what we agreed on! You’re gonna bust your budget.” He side-eyed a frowning Ted. The ‘and your chances’ implicit.

“Not mine. Just his.” Keeping my voice low, I raised my paddle and waved it in a facetious toodle-loo to get my adversary to bid again. “I’m not gonna buy that. I’m merely guaranteeing my actual prize. Have a little faith. Three eighty!”

Each swing of my paddle, a false flag. The price shot up and up and up.

“Three ninety!” He gave a reasonable number.

“Four twenty!” I threw out a joke.

“Four fifty!” He piled on.

“Five!” I countered.

He was glaring at me now. A bulging vein on his temple throbbed and threatened to burst, dousing everyone around him with a dose of performance enhancers. But he wrangled himself into the closest semblance of calm he was able, mustered the mini balls he had left and bid his last, desperate offer. “Six hundred thousand dollars!”

“Going once!” I fingered my racquet. “Going twice!” He flinched, concerned. I tossed him a guileless smirk and teasing thumbs up. “Sold - to Mr Universe!” 

Could I have gone overboard and denied him anything at all? Undoubtedly. I had enough in the bank account to purchase everything under this warehouse roof, the land included, without making a dent in my finances. But that wasn’t the point of today’s exercise. 

“Lot fifty-eight. Arri Alexa-” Neither the auctioneer nor the buffs wheeling the articles in had time to finish their jobs before I raised my voice and paddle both.

“Four-hundred thousand dollars!” high, but still a marginal scoop. I wanted none of the startled eyes turned on me to bother bidding. Too much more expensive, and it wouldn’t be worth the price. 

“D-do I hear four-ten?” The auctioneer wouldn’t. Only defeated mumbles until the hard snack of the gavel signalled, “sold!” 

No. Today was used to prove one thing alone: clever counts a lot more than cash.