Devoured it. The coverage, I mean. Not the whole story.” Beazle picked up three-page synopsis and skimmed through it: “Condemned prisoner wakes up in a dungeon. Nearly tumbles into a deep pit. Falls asleep, wakes up strapped to a board, a pendulum above his head with a razor-sharp scythe, swinging lower and lower.” Beazle looked up from the document, sniffed the air. “I smell franchise, Eddie.”
“ I beg your pardon.”
“ Slasher flicks keep on trucking. Sequels, prequels, spinoffs.”
“ Slasher? What a macabre word.”
Beazle returned his gaze to the document. “Then you throw in some moving walls for a second act complication, and finally the guy’s rescued by the French army. A little deus ex machina , but we can fix that. Our reader – a top film student who happens to be my niece – says you’ve got a bold voice and a literary style. Don’t worry about that ‘literary’ part. We can fix that, too.”
“ I am not certain I take your meaning.”
“ Forget it. Let’s talk money, Eddie. How much you making now?”
“ The Southern Literary Review pays me fifty dollars a month. Occasionally, there is extra remuneration. I was paid ten dollars for ‘The Raven.’”
Like a fisherman with a woolly bugger, Beazle baited the hook. “Diablo Pictures wants to option your story, Eddie. A quarter million bucks for one year against a cool million pick-up price.”
“ The devil you say!”
“ I shit you not, Eddie. Plus three points of the net, which of course is zilch, seeing how ‘Gone With the Wind” still hasn’t turned a profit. But you’ll get the usual boilerplate regarding sequels and merchandising.”
“ Merchandising?”
“ If McDonald’s wants to license the ‘Pit Burger,’ you get some dough. If Gillette markets the ‘Double Bladed Pendulum,’ you get a slice of the pie. Assuming we don’t change the title.”
“ Is this really happening, Mr. Beazle, or is this some phantasm of my imagination?”
“ It’s real, pal. You’re talking to the guy who greenlit three of the top ten grossing pictures of all time. Adjusted for inflation, of course. And here’s the foam on the latte. We want you, Eddie Poe, to write the script. In fact, we insist. Half a mill for a first draft, a re-write and a polish. Whadaya say?”
“ I fear I might swoon.”
“ As long as you don’t piss yourself. Fitzgerald did, right in that chair.”
The writer’s forehead beaded with sweat. Either it was the excitement or the heavy wool coat on an August day.
“ You look a little dry, Eddie. You want something to drink?”
“ Laudanum, perchance?”
“ What a kidder! Okay, let’s do some business.” Beazle pulled out a thick sheath of papers stapled to luxurious blue backing. “All I need is your signature, and it’s a done deal. Check’s already written. A quarter mill up front.”
He brandished the check, waving it like a pennant in a breeze. Handing a pen to the writer, Beazle said, “Before you know it, Eddie, you’ll be sitting in a director’s chair with your name on it, eating craft service omelettes, and banging the script girl.”
The writer searched for an inkwell before figuring out that the pen had its own supply. His hand poised over the contract, he said, “What did you mean a moment ago? About changing the title.”
“ The jury’s still out, Eddie. But we may have to lose ‘Pendulum.’ It’s three syllables.”
“ And that presents a conundrum?”
“ Titles need punch. There. Will. Be. Blood . Get it? Too bad ‘Saw’ is already taken.”
“ But the pendulum is essential to the predicament. The scimitar swings ever closer, magnifying the horror.”
“ So who wants to see a circumcision? It’s a movie, not a bris .”
Confusion clouded the writer’s face like fog over Malibu. “But I thought you liked my story.”
“ Exactly. Liked it. Didn’t love it. That’s why we gotta make some changes.”
The dark bags under the writer’s eyes
“ I beg your pardon.”
“ Slasher flicks keep on trucking. Sequels, prequels, spinoffs.”
“ Slasher? What a macabre word.”
Beazle returned his gaze to the document. “Then you throw in some moving walls for a second act complication, and finally the guy’s rescued by the French army. A little deus ex machina , but we can fix that. Our reader – a top film student who happens to be my niece – says you’ve got a bold voice and a literary style. Don’t worry about that ‘literary’ part. We can fix that, too.”
“ I am not certain I take your meaning.”
“ Forget it. Let’s talk money, Eddie. How much you making now?”
“ The Southern Literary Review pays me fifty dollars a month. Occasionally, there is extra remuneration. I was paid ten dollars for ‘The Raven.’”
Like a fisherman with a woolly bugger, Beazle baited the hook. “Diablo Pictures wants to option your story, Eddie. A quarter million bucks for one year against a cool million pick-up price.”
“ The devil you say!”
“ I shit you not, Eddie. Plus three points of the net, which of course is zilch, seeing how ‘Gone With the Wind” still hasn’t turned a profit. But you’ll get the usual boilerplate regarding sequels and merchandising.”
“ Merchandising?”
“ If McDonald’s wants to license the ‘Pit Burger,’ you get some dough. If Gillette markets the ‘Double Bladed Pendulum,’ you get a slice of the pie. Assuming we don’t change the title.”
“ Is this really happening, Mr. Beazle, or is this some phantasm of my imagination?”
“ It’s real, pal. You’re talking to the guy who greenlit three of the top ten grossing pictures of all time. Adjusted for inflation, of course. And here’s the foam on the latte. We want you, Eddie Poe, to write the script. In fact, we insist. Half a mill for a first draft, a re-write and a polish. Whadaya say?”
“ I fear I might swoon.”
“ As long as you don’t piss yourself. Fitzgerald did, right in that chair.”
The writer’s forehead beaded with sweat. Either it was the excitement or the heavy wool coat on an August day.
“ You look a little dry, Eddie. You want something to drink?”
“ Laudanum, perchance?”
“ What a kidder! Okay, let’s do some business.” Beazle pulled out a thick sheath of papers stapled to luxurious blue backing. “All I need is your signature, and it’s a done deal. Check’s already written. A quarter mill up front.”
He brandished the check, waving it like a pennant in a breeze. Handing a pen to the writer, Beazle said, “Before you know it, Eddie, you’ll be sitting in a director’s chair with your name on it, eating craft service omelettes, and banging the script girl.”
The writer searched for an inkwell before figuring out that the pen had its own supply. His hand poised over the contract, he said, “What did you mean a moment ago? About changing the title.”
“ The jury’s still out, Eddie. But we may have to lose ‘Pendulum.’ It’s three syllables.”
“ And that presents a conundrum?”
“ Titles need punch. There. Will. Be. Blood . Get it? Too bad ‘Saw’ is already taken.”
“ But the pendulum is essential to the predicament. The scimitar swings ever closer, magnifying the horror.”
“ So who wants to see a circumcision? It’s a movie, not a bris .”
Confusion clouded the writer’s face like fog over Malibu. “But I thought you liked my story.”
“ Exactly. Liked it. Didn’t love it. That’s why we gotta make some changes.”
The dark bags under the writer’s eyes
Similar Books
Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections)
Aiden James, Michelle Wright
Choke
Kaye George
New Title 1
Dru Pagliassotti
Dirty
H.J. Bellus
Sherry Sontag;Christopher Drew
Blind Man's Bluff: The Untold Story Of American Submarine Espionage
Wolf Trap
Benjamin Hulme-Cross
Nowhere Boys
Elise Mccredie
Cold Blood
James Fleming
Terror in Taffeta
Marla Cooper
In the Alpha's Bed (Stealing the Alpha Book 3)
Kate Rudolph