Boston, the limo driver for Omniscience/Ragnarök, extremely alert, checking for assassins, looks down the alley behind The Grill in Beverly Hills before giving the green light to Larry Mersault and Lester Barnes, who are ten minutes late for their lunch with the vice president of halitosis at Fox. Aware that every meal could be his last, Mersault sees his mentor remove the top of a magic marker before Boston goes first through the door at The Grill—
(Drive-by shootings in Beverly Hills had become as ubiquitous as jaywalking tickets. Celebrations of life held at Hollywood Forever were more popular than the cemetery screenings. A string of red carpet KAOS murders forced theater owners to lobby umpire Walter Nikolovski to declare certain areas off-limits for assassinations.)
The maître d’ retrieves a pair of menus and escorts “Mr Barnes” and his guest to a choice booth against the mirrored wall. Producers call out Lester’s name, drop their napkins, and rise up to pitch him projects. Lester speeds up his walk, then stops, causing Mersault to bump up against his back.
“Get your hands out of my pocket!” barks Lester.
Hispanic busboys look up from their trays. Lester ignores Joey Fatone and his business manager when a figure charges the agent with a raised spoon, which is sent clattering to the floor by a quick-thinking Lester, who runs over to a table in the middle of the room, his original target all along, where an Israeli arms dealer-producer never sees the magic marker swipe his forehead.
“You’re dead, Oren,” sneers Lester.
“I thought the Grill was a safe zone.”
“Take it up with Nikolovski,” says Lester, not giving a shit.
“Is that your witness?” Oren points at Mersault, marking him for death.
“You leave my reader out of this,” says the agent.
“Well, I’m wearing a safety so fuck you.”
“Safety? I don’t see a safety—”
Oren opens his jacket slightly, revealing a baby blue T-shirt: I MISS THE OLD BRITNEY.
Lester stomps his foot, “You son of a bitch.”
At their table, later, brass tacks, Fox exec Rodney Muir wonders: “Pay me, rape me, shit on me, I forget what the fourth fantasy was.”
“Strangle me?” offers Mersault.
“That’s not it. I can’t remember,” says Rodney.
Mersault: “Kill, Fuck, or Marry?”
Lester: “Pardon?”
Mersault: “Eva Braun. Tyler Perry. Big Bird. Which one would you kill, fuck or marry?”
Lester: “I’d rather floss my urethra with barbed wire.”
Rodney: “You guys should go on Christian Mingle. I have this friend who goes on those sites. I’ve seen pictures of his victims. He’s not discriminating—”
Lester: “You mean Brigham over at Universal?”
Mersault: “Aw, c’mon, do we have to talk about that guy?”
Rodney: “I hear Blacula’s unhappy with Famke.”
“Not anymore,” says Lester, sniffing his corned beef, “does this smell bad to you?”
“Don’t eat that sandwich,” says Mersault.
The Hispanic busboys are long gone.
Sickened producers retch over their poisoned lunch plates.
The crowd at the Grill stampedes toward the exit, covering their mouths in revulsion.
Prescription glasses and dentures bathe in puddles of vomit on the floor.
“Fucking janitors*,” mutters Lester.