A Christmas Story

The elevator pitch.

I’m standing in the lobby of a major studio’s flagship office, a shining monolith planted in the toxic sewage of La La Land. Thanks to an assortment of next-tech gadgets and my well-honed ninjutsu skills, I manage to slither past security into the elevator bay.

I spot my quarry immediately: a coiffed exec in his middle fifties, more suit-than-man. The doors open, and I smoothly follow him inside.

I must’ve practiced this next part in the mirror a hundred times. I was ready.

Carpe diem, Bisone.

By the shorthairs, buddy.

---

When the doors close, I lean towards him ever so slightly.

“A kid is born on the run from a psycho king and his assassins. It’s Baby’s Day Out meets The Terminator.”

The suit says nothing at first, but I can see an eyebrow raise on the word “assassins.” My limited mindreading powers pick up something like: “Baby-killers, you say? Please, go on.”

“This psycho king has already killed, like, half his own family to keep the throne. So when he finds out that this kid is gonna be born with special powers…”

“Pass,” the suit says, with a pained grimace. “The Superhero Thing is dead. Stick ten forks in it. Finito.”

“No, no, not like that. Think more like magical powers.”

“Yeah, okay, Harry-Potter-Chosen-One, yada yada.” He still looks bored, but I can see a few wheels turning. “Been trying to cash in Rowling, for obvious reasons. What’s our gimmick?”

“The kid’s mom is a pregnant teenager who has to give birth in a barn. Think Juno meets Lion King.”

“A barn’s too flyover,” he says. “Crackhouse. No… no, meth den. Meth is hot.” He looks me in the eye for the first time. “Tell me more about this kid. What’s her deal?”

“Well, it’s a boy…”

“Pass.”

The doors slide open. Thankfully it’s not his floor yet. A duo of maintenance men begin to maneuver a large dolly inside. One is black and the other Mexican. I can feel waves of anxiety and discomfort radiate from my quarry. But he still flashes a big, phony grin at them, edges oh-so politely out of their way. There’s a bit of serendipity in their arrival; the suit is trapped in one corner with me now, at whisper range. And I’ve been told I’m one helluva good whisperer.

“Never mind,” I say, “that’s just the frame and denouement. Our focus is a motley crew of misfits, who set out to investigate a strange phenomenon that appears in outer space. Cue sci-fantasy adventure of a lifetime. They have run-ins with demons and wizards, get chased by cults and imperial troops, all while closing in on the source of the anomaly. It’s Star Trek meets Lord of the Rings meets Jason and the Argonauts.”

“Jason and the Who-gonauts?”

“I mean, uh, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?”

The suit types something into his phone, and his eyes shoot wide.

“Pass!”

“I mean, uh, Mission Impossible, with a dash of Matrix. And their whole investigation ties in with the mystery of this magical kid who everyone wants to kill. We’re talking major franchise potential down the road.”

The suit is really thinking now — or what passes for that, in Hollywoodland. The doors ding open, and the maintenance guys file out. We’ve only got six floors to go. But I keep my cool, let him chew on it.

“What’s the I-P?”

“No I-P.”

“Pass.”

“Let me finish. It is based on some very, very popular books. But they’re all in the public domain. Not even the Mouse can snap up the rights.”

I eye the buttons warily. The clock is running out. But I’ve got him thinking. He nods along to some invisible calculus in his frosted miniwheats brain.

“Rating?”

“Anywhere from PG-13 to hard R. This crew is a very wild bunch of weirdos. You got your astronomer, math geek, book worm and whatnot, to cover the STEM cred. But you’ve also got a crazy occultist, an edgy Fringe Festival artist, your hippie-psychic-type, a mercenary with a heart of gold, maybe a sneaky con-man or bumbling magician for comic relief. And if we go R, this psycho king’s got you covered in the blood-and-titties department, believe me. It’s like Avengers meets The Arrival meets A Beautiful Mind meets The Madness of King George meets Last Crusade, but on a massive acid trip…”

The doors slide open. My time is up.

The suit begins to walk away.

Then he stops short. Hands me a business card.

“Treatment. Monday. Eight pages, max. Make it PG-13. Lindsay will give you the deets.”

The doors begin to close as he strides off.

He calls out to me over his shoulder.

“And make it a girl, for chrissakes. We don’t wanna get any of those phone calls, if you catch my drift.”

---

A merry and blessed Christmas to you all!

My (unsolicited) advice?

Sing, dance, feast and rejoice! Hug your friends and family, and pet all friendly animals in range. The year ahead might prove to be quite the wild ride.

Hang on tight.

We will win.

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