“A studio executive, the Anti-Christ, and a script reader walk into a club. The bartender looks at them and says: ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ That’s it. That’s the joke. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Someone, somewhere, is tired of screwing Libra.”
Studying the credits of an autographed poster of Liquid Sky, waiting for the head of legal affairs to finish a call, Mersault grins at a Kevlar vest (bullseye target on its back) framed in bulletproof-glass with a message from Justice for Janitors: THE BEST NIKOLOVSKI IS A DEAD NIKOLOVSKI.
Hanging up, Nikolovski turns to the reader: “Lester and I had a conversation about you the other day.”
“Is that right?”
“We were discussing how to raise your profile.”
The lawyer opens his desk drawer, unfolds a dusty fuck towel from Abyssinia, revealing a gem-encrusted handle of a sacrificial knife.
“Antwon Legion must die.”
“Say it again?”
“You’re the only one in the industry he trusts.”
“And if I say no?”
“No is just a moment in time.”
“Does this have anything to do with Antwon cutting his commission?”
“We don’t do nickels.”
“Why do I get the Sophie’s Choice? I’m not even an agent.”
“I’ve arranged for you to play Longinus, the Roman Centurion who pierces Jesus in his ribs. Someone will hand you a prop spear on set. Affixed to the blade will be this ancient secespita. You will be the next I Am Legend and Golgotha will be his Samarra.”
“Is that like Two Bunch Palms?”
“A merchant in Baghdad sends his servant to the market square for groceries. Hours later, the servant comes back terrified, telling his master he ran into a woman he recognized as Death, and she made a frightening gesture toward him. The servant steals a horse and escapes to Samarra where he thinks Death cannot find him. The merchant goes to the market square where Death is sipping a green tea latte and demands to know why she made a menacing gesture at his servant. Death goes, ‘It wasn’t menacing. I was shocked to see him in Baghdad because I have a spinning class with him tomorrow in Samarra.’”
Nikolovski picks up the blade, walks around the standing desk and places a hand on Mersault’s shoulder—
“You’re asking me to murder my friend.”
“The Academy wants this to happen.”
Nikolovski jams the Nerf dagger into the reader’s neck. The weapon is made of foam rubber.
“Make sure there’s a witness,” insists the umpire, “or the killing won’t count.”
Meeting over, Nikolovski offers the reader a farewell fist bump.
“You could get the Thalberg Award for this.”