Chapter 2: Jim You're Agents...

"Jim your Agent's going to commit an especially brutal suicide once he reads this drivel," Gary twitched as he spoke, holding both hands to his temples as if he were in a great deal of pain.  "Jimmy, Mr. Jim, love of my hetero-life: There, is, no, **** CHANCE I can wring a screenplay from this trainwreck!"  He approached Jim's desk, slightly hunched, face adorned with a condescending look you flash your two year-old as he triumphantly recalls the **** he so masterfully deployed in the "Big Boy Potty".

"Gary... Pirates... Pirates are in man," Jim broke eye-contact, staring at his desk to hide the tears welling under a pallid face, hands intermittently shaking, "you know, Johnny Depp, sexy, Orlando Bloom, together, fightin' um... ghosts?  People want Pirates Gary."  He contorted his face, red eyes and all, into a coy smile, concurrently kicking at something hollow and bottle-like under his desk.  Face parallel with his desk he murmured, "Gary this is target market pulp man, this, this should be --"

"Wrong Jimbo!  Gary slapped the desk with both hands, eyes bulging.  "This is Cappin' Jim Bleu -- Jim Bleu? -- the saucy, misogynist pirate on a boring adventure island... an island where he knows the only inhabitant!  If Orson Welles and Robert Towne simultaneously possess me tonight, colluding to make me a legend, I still can't make anyone give a **** about this character."

Gary glanced at Jim's still-trembling hands, accusingly, "Jimmy what's with the hands baby?  Now I know you didn't go and get Parkinson's on me in the last few hours.  You drunk? You been--"

Breaking down, Jim cried, "Gary I'm clean man, I'm just, really... into my story?"

"You, ever so deftly if I may add, kicked the bottle of Dewars right over buddy.  Kicked it over as in it's having a little pow-wow around my shoes.  Three months my man, Paramount gave us three months.  Jim, stop cryin', come one man.  JIM!"  Gary sighed.  After staring down his weeping colleague for a rather demoralizing ninety-seconds he puckered his lips and bobbed his head in a way that resigned he at least knew he was **** ahead of time.  Nonchalant he made his way coolly towards the door, craning his neck just a few inches, now disgusted, "You don't even drink good Whisky."