Created By

Read Created By for Free Online

Book: Read Created By for Free Online
Authors: Richard Matheson
mind.

character
motivation
    P aramount was tripping on adrenal fluid; a frantic operating room, filled with a fresh shipment of hopeful wounded: writers, actors, directors.
    Projects.
    Five shows in production, plus Jonathan Demme huddling with Eddie Murphy; the black interferon. Robin Williams and Kevin Costner were shooting a new John Hughes script about the discovery of cheese, or some such high-security rumor, and the whole lot was doing the Cape Kennedy, pre-launch rumble; Pachinko-hyper.
    CAA and ICM agents roved; Armani hammerheads. Stars scarfed in the private room, in the commissary, shielded from earth contact. Development executives campaigned and pleaded. Over lunch. On 560 SEC cellulars. Anywhere talent would listen and commit. Anywhere red lights could be bribed or stroked green.
    Alan crossed the lot in a complimentary golf cart, on the way to his office; a junior Bob Hope. He stopped at Frank’s office and found him, in his chair, spinning slow, nasty circles, rolling a bomber. He’d been given Lucy’s old office, the one she ruled before she’d moved to Desilu in 1807. She’d inherited it from Howard Hughes after he dropped bra research in favor of alphabetizing his urine. Further along, it got passed to Pica Lancelot Stephen J. Cannell. It was one of Hollywood’s priceless hand-me-downs.
    The office was a three-room suite, complete with bar, blazing fireplace, and furniture that looked like it came from the mansion of one of Balzac’s mistresses; even the pillows seemed carved. Frank kept his Harley knuckle-head parked inside, leaned against the calfskin sofa. It leaked chain oil on the Berber but that was okay with the studio. Frank’s show was number one and his pilot just pulled a thirty share. He was royalty.
    Def Leppard’s “Adrenalize” was coming through the Bang and Olufsen system with garden shears. Frank was practically yelling, complaining.
    “… this star of mine is worse than the soundtrack to
Torch Song Trilogy
injected directly into your colon.”
    “He’s still driving you crazy?”
    Frank gathered his thoughts; beyond gone. Turned down the ear-throb.
    “I’m bleeding seventy grand a week for this guy, right? Man spent two months working in a soap before the network jams him down my pilot. Show makes him a star, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Does he extend appreciation?” Frank pivoted hishead in a slow no. “What he does is—now get this, it’s seminal—the Minnesota state fair decides to fly him in for a special promotional gig. God only knows, okay? He’s gonna fuck a hen in front of forty thousand people far as I know, ’cause he’s the star of a weekly show and that’s valuable.” He held up the joint. “You want some of this?”
    Alan passed, scanning the litter of compact discs everywhere; loitering like little flying saucers. He wasn’t in the mood to get high. He’d been writing all morning and took a cart ride to clear the numbing procession of eight-by-ten glossy, Prell-heads that had been sent in envelopes for the part of the Mercenary, though Andy Singer hadn’t ordered the pilot. But rumors did the carcinoma seep and agents wanted the jump.
    Only one guy had been vaguely interesting. But the pink galaxy of freckles on his face was so visually alarming you could barely look at him without feeling like Margaret Mead seeing the Canary chain from a plane for the first time.
    Frank got up to fuck with the fireplace he kept going for atmosphere though it was summer. Alan glanced at him and knew “Let’s Get Serious” was driving Frank nuts, as usual. Frank took a swig on the burning sausage of dope, flung booted legs over the couch and landed in eleven grand of tufted red cow. Covered his eyes with a hairy forearm, thinking colitis thoughts. Sometimes Alan saw his future in Frank and it unnerved him.
    Alan went to the beveled window and watched two fat executive producers who bulged out of their Bally’s, quietly arguing with a troubled director who

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