HELL OF A DEAL, a supernatural satire

Chapter Two

2

One decade into the new millennium executive producer and C.E.O. Alfred Smith lived in utter dread of the final judgment of the universe.

Seventy-three years old now, Al spent his long days on his treadmill machine. There he trudged like Sisyphus as he stared into his large plasma wall monitor.

"Big Al," as he'd been ordained in the entertainment press, kept to his office sanctuary on the top floor of the Smith Tower building, the office complex in Studio City that Al's entertainment empire had built.

On Al's ear a wireless transmitter kept him in constant touch with his company, primarily through Anna Holt, Al's personal assistant. Anna's desk was parked just outside the sanctuary on the main office floor. Out there a bustle of activity, but inside the sanctuary it was quiet, subdued, a different world altogether.

Adjacent Al's plasma monitor screen hung photographs from his life, his wife Lisa Namid and his daughter Victoria Migisi-Smith. Rimming the remainder of his massive marble and glass suite Al's movie posters presented themselves. In polished silver frames the colorful poster sheets advertised Al's numerous movies.

Al's wall collection stretched back to his very first production in 1967, The Movement. This Hippie exploitation romp hit the market just before a flood of similar films. Al's timing helped the movie capitalize on its narrow release window and catapult Al Smith's name up into the limelight. The Movement established Alfred Smith as a savvy risk-taker in touch with the youth market of the day.

Later posters included Fight 'Em Over There, a blood and guts combat picture, among others. Al's Driven to Reckless poster revealed a man tied to a chair as a dark silhouetted torturer figure crept up behind him holding a razor. Shock Troops, one through four, featured battlefield scenes and tattered American flags, grimy soldiers who smoked cigarettes and dodged explosions.

"I want something they'll remember for generations," said Smith at his last month's strategy meeting. All the Smith Company department heads attended. They sat quietly as the old man rose up, and he steadily drove himself into a rage.

"Where are those pictures? Why am I not seeing those projects? Something newer, bigger, better?"

None of the well-dressed young Turks volunteered a response.

Al pounded a fist on the conference table. "I'm not seeing it, and I'm very disappointed."

Al scolded his head of Acquisitions, Jim Wyman, in front of the group. Al's furor was clearly related to failures in Wyman's department, although Al didn't name any names.

Everyone just knew. The young executives gazed back at Al with trepidation in their faces.

Al had never stood up and preached a sermon or turned scarlet with dissatisfaction before. "I want to be remembered. I want The Smith Company to be remembered."

Al shook visibly, from a self-inflicted jolt of adrenalin. His teeth ground, and he scanned their dumbfounded visages. He was ready to fire the first one who opened a mouth. This was too important, and Al was beyond interruption.

"Where is that one in a million piece of entertainment? I'm not seeing it gentlemen, and ladies." He spit droplets onto the conference table as he shouted. "Where is that movie they will never forget for the rest of their lives? Is that too much to ask? Bring it to me!" Short of breath Al crumpled back down into his chair.

Al's weathered face flustered, and they rushed over to give aid.

Al gasped in a harsh staccato, and he made himself angrier for effect. Flailing his arms wildly at them Smith pushed them all back. "I don't want any more disposable, canned heroes. Carbon-copy villains. The next motherfucker who brings me that is fired. Don't waste my time. I don't have it."