E dropped down on the couch next to Turtle, Corona in hand. Turtle was watching cartoons. "What , no porn?"
Turtle took a pull off his bowl and waived the smoke away from E on the exhale. "Nah, not this time, bro," he croaked.
"One hand job from Jamie Lynn and you put your dick on a pedestal."
"Like you've had any this month."
"You got me there, man."
The front door swung open and Drama glided into the room. "Greetings, gentlemen," he said.
"You look even more relaxed than the pothead on my left," E said. He noted the plush towel slung over Drama's shoulder. "Where are you coming from, the gym?"
Drama waived him off. "From the rub-and-tug, my friends. A particularly effective session with Thailand's finest."
"You brought your own towel?"
Drama's eyes narrowed in disgust. "Like I'd use one of theirs. They could've been used as spunk swifters for all I know."
"That's a good fuckin' point," Turtle said from deep in the couch. "Miss Bangkok over there could be using them to mop up the peanut sauce."
"That sounds extremely odd, and I'm not even sure I want it explained," Vince said as he walked out of his room, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "E, are we set with Ari?"
"Yeah, he said he has a project for us to consider."
"What is it?"
"He wouldn't say—wants us to come down."
"You fellas need me to drive?" Turtle asked.
"It's probably safer if I drive, Lebowski."
Turtle blew out a long cloud of smoke. He tried to say 'okay,' but only a cough came out.
"You need some backup, Baby Bro?" Drama asked. "Say the word and I'll bring the full weight of the Five Towns franchise upon Ari Gold."
"I'll be all right, Johnny—thanks. Shall we?"
"I'm ready," E said, popping on his sunglasses.
"Let's roll," Vince said.
--
Vince and Eric stepped off the elevator into the Miller Gold Agency. The top floor had all the cool of the fortress of solitude, but without Marlon Brando or the quiet.
"Did Ari ever rep Brando back in the day?" Vince asked.
"He was like three when The Godfather came out."
"No, I meant after."
"Like on The Island of Dr. Moreau?"
Vince nodded and pointed at him. "Yeah, right."
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Lloyd said cheerily. "Ari is very anxious to see you."
Ari was putting golf balls in his office. "I'm anxious to see Vince," he called into the waiting area. "You and the leprechaun can play Shanghai tonsil hockey until he lets you hit the Dublin mudslide. Just take it someplace private."
"I might take offense to that if I thought Babs or your wife would even let you borrow your balls," E said. They walked into the office. Ari looked up from the green and gave Vince a hug around the neck before the movie star dropped into a couch.
"My balls," Ari said, "are hanging comfortably low and have gotten the three of us more cash than you could count in your pizza boy dreams. Now are we gonna talk business or do you wanna join Lloyd for that rice-meets-potatoes butt-fuck-fiesta we were discussing, because I'm leaving it on the table for you, big guy."
E sat down next to Vince. "What've you got for Vince, asshole?"
Ari dropped into a chair opposite the boys. He still clutched his putter like it was Gandalf's staff.
"Celebrity. Fucking. Tennis."
Vince and E looked at each other, and rose to their feet.
"Whoa, guys—come on. Hear me out."
"You know, I don't appreciate you dragging Vince and me down here for ridiculous bullshit," E said.
"And I don't appreciate you maneuvering our boy into a piece of donkey shit—
"Medellin was my decision, Ari," Vince cut in. "So don't get on E about it."
"Fine, but the fact remains we are clawing out from the fucking rubble and we need to show the world that Vinnie Chase is a young sex machine of a movie star, and not a fuck up in a fat suit."
Vince raised his eyebrows.
Ari closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. "You are not a fuck up." He waived it away. "You know what I'm saying. We have to show the flag, and this Celebrity Open is a great fucking venue for us."
"It sounds kinda lame," Vince said.
"The US Open had record attendance and TV ratings last year. Some west coast guys wanted to wet their beaks and couldn't reach a deal with the USTA. They came up with this event and they're going to give a portion of the profits to charity."
"Give me a break, Ari," E said. "Who are they getting for this thing?"
"Russel Crowe and Christian Bale for starters. Bitch."
"Get the fuck out of here."
Vince leaned in. "Crowe and Bale?"
"They're calling it 3:10 to Wimbledon."
"Shit," E said in disbelief.
"So now you see why it will do Vince a world of good to be seen amongst these guys."
E looked at Vince and shrugged his 'maybe we should' shrug.
Vince nodded. "All right. I'm in. I'm decent at tennis—I would've been on the varsity team in high school, but I always missed practice."
"Too much ass really gets in the way of after-school athletics," E said.
"Or some might say it defines them," Vince answered.
Ari pointed at him. "Well said, Vinnie. That's why we work for you."
"Well I actually was on the varsity team," E said, "and I still play once a week with Drama. I'll help you work on your game. How long do we have?"
"Two weeks, baby. So let's rock it—I want to see Vince looking good out there."
Vince and E stood up to walk out.
"Oh, Ari," Vince said. "Did you ever rep Brando in the later years?"
Ari rolled his eyes. "Yeah—he came over to Terrance and me for The Score. We practically spent the whole commission getting a separate buffet for him on set. Fat fuck anti-Semite."
"The horror," E said. He and Vince chuckled and walked out.
"But then you already knew that, since he ordered in Sbarro's all the time," Ari called after him. "Cock smoker."
--
Vince and E walked back into the penthouse. Turtle hadn't moved, but he had half a Chinese buffet set up on the coffee table.
"Jesus, Turtle—you're still watching cartoons?" E asked.
"Yo, you guys have to see this shit—they're ripping Vince a new one."
On the TV, an Aquaman action figure was dressed up in a white suit and was sporting a latin-fro wig. The action figure was spouting off in Spanish while subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
"What the hell is this?" Vince asked.
"I dunno," Turtle said.
"They're spoofing Vince and Medellin," E said. "The fucks."
"Whatever," Vince said, sounding tired. "I gotta get used to this shit."
A Viking Quest Tarbull action figure jumped into the frame.
"Yo, there's Drama!" Turtle said.
Drama burst out of his room. "What happened?" He stopped when he saw the TV. "They have a collectible Tarbull action figure—second wave, I'd say. Could catch a pretty penny on the fanboy circuit."
Aquaman-Escobar spoke again and the subtitle flashed: Looks like I'm a bigger loser than my brother now. I'd better fire my little pussy manager.
"Someone's getting their fucking ass kicked for this," Drama said darkly.
"This is fucked up, E," Vince said. "They crossed the line."
"Turtle, what goddamn show is this?" E asked.
Turtle spoke through a mouthful of lo-mein. "Something chicken… or something."
"Robot Chicken?"
"Yeah," Turtle smiled.
"Son of a bitch!"
"What?" Vince asked. "What is it?"
The episode ended and the credits came up. The answer hovered in their faces like a middle finger.
CREATED BY SETH GREEN.
To be continued…