“Curious people are interesting people; I wonder why that is.” — Bill Maher
In Hollywood, it always rains after a blockbuster is released. That’s what Barry Arntorp, executive producer extraordinaire, says after he’s been sequestered away with a bottle of “sparkling wine” — Barry despises champagne, but likes the effect, so he gets “sparkling wine” from different nations. You’re only allowed to call it Champagne if it comes from the Champagne region in France, Barry tells us, young agents listening raptly to the master.
I am there with Maxime Larin. We are the hottest commodities on the market, these days, and I mean that literally in both senses — the hottest and our status as commodities. Maxime Larin doesn’t drink, but he smokes and that makes him a forbidden sort of fish in Hollywood. They say Miramax’s founder smoked, before the #metoo movement got him by the gonads. Now he rots away in a prison cell, his dreams torn asunder, Hollywood broken to pieces for him. For the rest of us it’s just fine, thank you.
Maxime Larin is bi, and has sucked off elderly Jewish men in bathroom stalls to seal a deal. He is half hoping it’s that way with Barry Arntorp: one good blowjob and Maxime’s career will finally be sealed. Despite all his talent, he’s still hustling along, like the rest of us.
Maxime is the kind of agent who never turns down a desperate request from an actor-client. One time last Christmas Rob Pithgaw, the handsome Missourian, phoned up Maxime with panic in his voice. “My girlfriend wants me to go down on her as a Christmas present!” he said. “And I think it’s fucking the most disgusting thing possible. What do I do?” Maxime volunteered to substitute in his place and do the nasty deed for him. And he did. The day after Christmas, when the doves were flying to hell from overwork, Maxime ate the bearded clam of Justine Candelabra (real last name: Morton) and made her cum twice. Rob Pithgaw thanked him effusively.
But I’m tired of talking of Maxime Larin. Let’s talk about me, myself, and I. Some say I’m a better agent than Maxime because I have principles. I, for example, would pass on that smelly, yeast-infected, shit-impacted (Rob Pithgaw was rumored to go from anal to vaginal sex in a heartbeat) love box that 26-year-old Justine Morton called her favorite part of her body and make her diddle herself with her stinky index finger instead. But I’d soothe Rob with a good speech, of which I keep many in reserve.
My speech would go something like this:
Rob, as your girlfriend is diddling herself, think like an alpha god rather than a beta princeling. The princeling always gets the shitty duties and accedes to them. The alpha god makes up his own rules. Be an alpha, Rob, for just 2 minutes and your life will improve immeasurably, I promise you — and it’ll improve your screen look, especially during those screen tests when everything seems impossible to emote and you’re stuck in your own cockbox … be an alpha, Rob! Be an alpha!
That’s speech #106. Speech #107 is how to avoid taxes legally.
These days, me and Maxime have a running competition to be the first agent to represent Harry Breedlove, the ex-porn actor. Yes, his name really is Harry Breedlove. He’s the one porn star they didn’t have to change the legal name of in order to get him to sound appropriately funky.
Harry Breedlove’s just been cast in Island Detour, a Ridley Scott-directed fiasco that’s already running $2m above budget in pre-production, and the camera loves loves loves the Breedlove face and the Harry pubic voice. Island Detour is set to make him a star. And he hasn’t got an agent! Hence the competition between Maxime Larin and I, 2 hot young agent studs, for the ex-porn star’s business.
Does it matter to us that he was using Viagra to plow through a dozen women just 6 months ago? No, it does not. I have principles, but not those kind of principles. He could be Jarvis Jr. in some future California, leading a boy around by a leash, probably a naked boy, and I’d still want to represent him.
Barry Arntorp’s name appears on my cell phone simultaneous with the ringtone, which is the War of 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky. I answer.
“Bar,” I say casually, while sweating a million buckets under my armpits.
“Michael,” Barry says. “Have you heard? Maxime Larin is dead. Hung by his own hand. That leaves you in sole possession of the title of hottest young rocket in the town. How’d you like to represent me? I –” He continues talking, but I no longer hear him.
Maxime Larin? Dead? A hanging, you say? Motherfucker.
That’s great news! *claps hands* Alrighttttttt!! Sure, Barry, I’ll be your flying butt monkey. Just show me which dotted line to sign on, and like Depeche Mode growls, From the contract there’s no turning back.
Too bad about Maxime though. That boy sure could compete.
Dark Sport 