Balboa Bay, Orange County, California. With the housing bubble still in trouble, the Bluths continued their push into the business of building…buildings.
The cheap infomercial set and B-grade camera equipment stood around them, as they spun out their stock spiel.
"With two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living area, and kitchen, how could you not buy one of these beautiful new homes?" Maeby gestured to the camera.
"Absolutely, It's the perfect family home, and look, they're just walking off the plan, the phones are ringing hot!" Michael also gestured to the camera.
"If you buy today, we can also throw in free satellite WIFI, which is perfect if you need the internet, or any phone connection! It's not for everyone, but for me, I find myself making phone calls with it, Skyping, Facebook, so many uses for it today!"
"It's just an added bonus but what great value! What a fantastic deal today, to buy in with Bluth homes!"
It was a slightly different Bluth company to the year earlier.
On the landing of the stair car at the Cinco di Cuatro festival, a desperate Michael had pleaded, "I'm going to have sex with you, for money." to Lucille #2.
Bluth-Austero had been in turmoil, having barely weathered the financial chaos, dependent on further investment to prop up its failing books. Michael Bluth had decided the best time to start construction on a whole suite of new homes was at the climax of the financial crisis, a great time in everyone's books, and especially this company's. But the main investor to the company was dead,
Lucille #2 had screamed and a series of thumps were heard on the stair car.
Her money lost in a quagmire of legal proceedings, for as forward thinking as their benevolent benefactor always seemed to be investing in a company that had been for years a "sell" with Mad Money, she didn't have a last will and testament.
Perfecto had sat in a crisp black suit and tie, with Barry Zuckercorn on the opposite side of the table.
"The Bluth company owes Perfecto Telles five million dollars."
"What would make you say that?" Barry had asked, then turning to wink at George Senior.
Perfecto's lawyer, Bob Loblaw, had slid a piece of paper across the table. "This is a cheque written by the late Ms Austero, for five million dollars, made out to the Bluth company. Cashed by you, George Bluth."
Barry had nodded slowly, then whispered loudly to George Senior, "He's good."
The Bluth company badly needed new investors to pay off its major creditor. Fortunately, though, a family member with a lot of investors, needed somewhere safe to park credit.
"Maeby, you're fired." George Michael had steered the golf cart away from her.
A company which was still rated "Don't buy", but safer than the Bluth's other ventures.
Lucille had watched the TV in her room at the luxury prison with mouth agape, as Buster stood beside the wall, and George Senior droves the bus around and around. "They caddyshacked'd it!"
And which the number of unemployed Bluths needed just at that moment. Which is how Michael Bluth, and his non-biological niece Maeby Bluth, found themselves working together again.
Michael had neatly stacked the papers and folders on his desk, answering his phone.
"Hey, hey, how's my Unkie Mike?" he heard over the line.
"Maeby. Thanks for the advice by the way."
"No problem, how did it go?"
George Michael had then punched Michael in the face outside Rebel Alley's apartment block.
"It really made an impact." Michael summarised.
"Great. Do you know where the company chequebook is?"
"Yes, why would you need that?"
"I need to make some investments. For the good of the company."
"What kind of, investments?"
"In children. As they're our future."
"It sounds to me like you'd wish to get a salary, the company can't just hand money out. You're going to have to work for it."
And that's how Michael and Maeby found themselves doing an infomercial for housing developments on the home shopping network.
"Unbeatable deal today, Michael." Maeby grinned, "The growth in value on these properties has been 100% just this year, imagine that over ten years!"
A disclaimer flashed on the screen, 'The financial advice provided on this show is general in nature, consult your financial planner to see if this is right for you'
That was the two days between when the sex offenders moved out, and they put their houses in the market.
"Fantastic, fantastic value, you won't find better value or a better location!"
The ticky tack boxes in the desert were in fact starting to move, and even though the spiel was part bluff, the Bluths had started selling houses for the first time in fifteen years. Partly due to their new CEO, and CFO.
Michael sat at the head of the board, glancing at Maeby, as a board member droned on.
"…and the SEC will not be happy to hear the misrepresentation in those ads…"
"Let me stop you there, Bill." Michael raised a hand, "I think the CFO and I are doing a fantastic job and our homes are actually selling, so unless there's a complaint, I think we should stay on the wagon."
"There's been complaints." Another board member piped up.
"How many?"
"Forty-five."
Michael floundered, "Well, uh…"
"Until we get something in writing, that's just speculation." Maeby interjected. "We'll handle it then."
"The charges have been filed, it's on all the Wagon." The board member insisted.
The woman got two blank stares from the Executives.
"Prosecutor, Denis Wagon." Jerry volunteered.
"And that's what we are paying you for, to handle our legal matters." Michael asserted to Jerry. "Anything else?"
Having a CEO who didn't know all of the day to date dramas of the Bluth company was now due to better management, rather than just George and Lucille. With Maeby's capital, and Michael's management, the Bluth company had purchased a new plot of land, and had even turned the first sod. And cut a ribbon, as all Bluth sod turnings include. But Michael had made sure only he and his CFO were attending from the family, the rest of his staff working productively.
"Thank you, thank you all for being here today. I wasn't around for the first sod of the last successful housing project, but I certainly wouldn't miss this one. Maeby, can you pass me the scissors?"
Maeby's eyes darted, trying to scan as to where they'd gone. Spotting them in the car far from the reporters, she jogged towards the car.
"While we're waiting, can I also say, the Bluth Company is extremely proud of its recent financial turn around. Rome wasn't built in a day, but we are on track like never before."
"What about the case against you with the SEC?" interjected a reporter.
"That's not even reached the courts, and we are confident of a quick resolution."
"So this company hasn't fallen off the wagon?"
Maeby dashed towards the group, the scissors in hand.
"No, between myself and my CFO, we're surging forward at a rapid rate."
"Michael Bluth, didn't your mother tell you to not run with scissors?" Asked another reporter, while the group snapped Maeby.
"No, I think adults we can…"
Maeby failed to see the turned sod and tripped, flying forward into Michael and collecting him in a heap in the dirt, as the group of reporters swarmed.
Michael leaned back into his leatherette desk chair. "That is one of our better headlines." He held up the paper, 'In the dirt: Bluth's latest investment'.
"That's the late edition, the online had the phrase 'mud wrestling' in it."
"At least they didn't go with 'playing dirty', I thought they'd go in harder."
She shrugged. "It's easier with GOB driving the limo and Mom running for Congress, keeps them out of the spotlight."
"They really should have gone for 'playing dirty'." He muttered. "Ah well, that was our most successful sod turn yet."
"Have the plans been approved up for Bluthton?"
"Yes, can't have the model of the original version, because suspending a scale model would cost millions of dollars a year. The rest, we're just getting our lawyers to look over them."
"I thought Barry was busy with Pop-pop?"
"I brought back Bob Loblaw."
"Now that Mom is not around to try it on with him again?"
"Yeah." Michael looked to change the subject. "Also, she'd paid back part of the retainer we'd put him on through being his nanny, so we're currently in the black with him."
"Wouldn't be the first time." Maeby sat down, leaned back into the visitor chair. "Wow, I've almost got nothing to do."
"So quiet without the rest of the family about." Michael shook his head. "Oh, have you tried restricting our affairs to the oil rig yet? Pop-pop was sure they did that in the 70s."
"No, Bob couldn't find any record of that. Maybe Barry just told him he had? To do anything with the rig, we'd need to own the rig. Also, we can't afford to buy an oil rig. Also, we would have no idea how to run an oil rig."
"So they definitely don't do PO Boxes?"
Maeby sent him a sideways glance.
"Dad…again….It's only 6, are you free tonight? How about we grab some dinner?"
Maeby swiped her phone, "Sure, I'm free most nights."
They sat at their table at the spacious cream finished restaurant, a large round table dressed in white linen between them.
"Did you speak to George Michael?" Maeby replaced her glass on the table.
"Yeah, he said he and Rebel are engaged." Michael nodded.
George Michael had seen his life flash before his eyes before, and not always in a good way, but when the opportunity came up, he didn't miss the train.
At the outdoor mall, a children's red train chugged past them. "Oh George, look at that gorgeous train!" Rebel had pointed to the train for toddlers.
"Did you want to ride it?" George Michael squeezed her hand.
"I can't do that."
"You should, you only live once."
As they climbed in behind other four and five year olds, a group of teens passed by, and started heckling and laughing.
"Look at the Baby, there with your girlfriend!
"If you love her so much why don't you marry her?"
"Ignore them." George Michael said firmly. "This is only about you."
She had smiled, and had taken his hand. When the train started to move, she had continued, "When I was a little girl Dad would always bring me here, and we'd go on it. It was one of the few things he'd do with me when were out and about."
"Rebel, I think those kids were right."
"What?" She had demanded.
"You are such an amazing person, and I love you. Rebel, will you marry me!"
Rebel had smiled, and had squealed. "Yes!"
"Between you and me, I don't think you're missing much, she's kind of got a string of ex-lovers that the studio has to placate every so often, it's all a bit…" Maeby gestured in frustration. "Oh, cute flowers." She noticed a vase of orange lillies with black spots on a pedestal nearby.
"Maybe I dodged a Rebel." Michael considered.
She cringed. "You sure dodged something."
"Do you miss it? The studio?"
"I don't miss the Rebels, but I do miss selling millions of tickets to movies like 'the Oceanwalker'."
"Do you know anything about a poster George Michael had up in his room for a French film? I remember seeing it years ago. It started with an 'L'."
"No, I don't remember."
She did remember. It was Les Cousins Dangeroux, a film about cousins having a relationship, of which her studio then did a remake. Badly.
"He was always so into that wood block of his, did he get that from you?"
Michael paused, before admitting, "Yeah, I sometimes break out the guitar."
"Really? I don't think I ever heard you on there."
Michael sings offkey seated on a chair in his bedroom, strumming, then stopping. And strumming again.
"Well we hadn't spent much time together before now." Michael noted.
"You always spent a lot of time at work, or with George Michael." Maeby mused.
"Yeah, I guess I had different priorities." His eyes drifted.
And back into the priorities, Michael and Maeby continued construction on their terrainian marvel, Bluthton. Away and way from the original Bluth vision of a hovering city, but still with the skyhigh ambitions that had kept Bluth on the books as a 'don't' buy' from Mad Money.
Jim Cramer tented his fingers on the screen. "You know, these Bluths, run by that CEO that hasn't done much in ten years, and that CFO who is a breath of fresh air, and seems to blowing them in a direction! Good direction, I don't know, still got the SEC hovering around it, but I'm moving this company from a 'Don't Buy' to a, 'Would not buy', my highest rating yet!"
Standing in front of his office TV, Michael pumped his fists. "Hey Maeby! We're up from a 'Don't Buy' to a 'Would not buy'!"
"Wow." She wandered into his office. "Moving in the right direction."
"They mentioned you too, sad you were 'blowing the company in a direction'."
"Better to be blowing something I guess." She shrugged. "So are we on the Wagon or off it at the moment?"
"Jerry!" Michael shouted, then sat at his desk when the balding grey suited man appeared. "Are we on the Wagon or off it?"
"We're on at the moment, he's ignoring our pleas."
"We need to keep the company on track, this could derail us."
"Do you want to talk to…"
"No, Jerry, this is what I pay you for." Michael interjected.
"Show him how little these cases against the Bluth company have materialised over the years." Maeby instructed, "The government won't leave us alone. Counter him with harassment." She mused, "Maybe we need to do a PR campaign."
"Maybe not when your mother is running for Congress?" Michael cautioned.
"I'll…look into it." Jerry mumbled, leaving the chiefs.
"Why do you want to do a PR campaign?" Michael asked her directly.
In the boardroom full of old white men next to the screen, Maeby had used her laser pointer on the powerpoint projection, running through her mental script. "And we expect to double our revenue in the next two fiscal years."
"Are there any threats to the bottom line? Further litigation?" The youngest and least bald one had asked.
"The Bluth company have gone from a solid investment, to a far more solid investment. Solid as a rock."
Like from building on wet sand, to building on dry sand. At least they'll be plumbed this time.
"Are you sure? The Bluth company has the highest number of citing's in pleadings of any Orange County company."
"There is no possibility we will come off the wagon. I give you my personal guarantee"
"I just think it's a good look." She dug the toe of her shoes into the carpet. "You know, all the appearance of a go-getting company selling to the broader population who sit around watching infomercials all day. And haven't the infomercials moved our stocks well? If we put our family out there more, the better things seem to get for the company."
Perhaps at the best of times.
"Yeah, it's February 14 today, next one is next week." He recalled, spotting a staffer wandering past the door with a bunch of flowers in hand.
"I'll get into the network, maybe we can move ten next one?"
"That's if they can weed out the prank calls."
Strangely enough, supporters of Sally Sitwell were calling up and promising to send cheques that never materialised.
"Well, I've got nothing else on tonight, might as well get on it." She walked out the door.
At her desk, in a smaller office with a smaller window than Michael's, Maeby leaned on the armrest while continuing to talk on the desk phone. "Yes, an hour slot. No Iguana this time. No, same as before…"
A delivery man walked through her door with a bunch of tigerlillies in hand, and held out a clipboard.
She scrawled in the vague location of the signature area. "Yes, I'll hold." Putting the phone down, she searched through the flowers for the card, not finding one.
Sending flowers on a busy Valentines day in Orange County can be a mixed blessing, especially when a delivery may not notice where he's waving one of his armfuls of flowers.
The delivery man with the same tigerlillies had slammed his white van shut, and while reaching to grab the clipboard off the front seat, he propped the flowers upside down under his elbow, the as card had floated face down to the bitumen.
Michael walks into Maeby's office, now lit with her desk lamp. "How's it going?"
"Good, you won't believe it, I got flowers from a secret admirer."
"Really?"
"Yeah, no card. Probably from some actor or something."
Most actors would go for the classical bunch of roses, in fact an online poll registered the red rose as the bribe of choice for casting directors. Tigerlillies would be an imaginative decision.
"They're nice. Did the network say we were locked in?"
"Yeah I said lock it in, Eddie."
"You know what they say about TV, TV is where its at for who wants to be a millionaire."
"I was such a sucker sticking with the movies idea for so long." She shook her head.
As were we. But speaking of communication, Michael was getting some interesting phone calls the next day.
At his desk, the warm daylight streamed in through the blinds of his office. "Yes, I got the call from Lindsay earlier. How much do you need? Sorry, the company doesn't have that kinda money just lying around at the moment. No, really. No, we really can't spare the money. Dad, I just can't give you that kinda money." Michael's voice boomed louder and louder.
Maeby strode in. "What does he want?"
He put his hand over the receiver. "Four million."
Maeby's mouth fell open. "Uh, no. No way. Maybe $40k? that's the most we can get back in tax this year."
Michael returned to the phone. "So Maeby is saying $40k. That's all we can give you. Well, fine then. Goodbye."
"Is it for mom?"
"Yeah. She needs TV advertising."
She needed more than that to counter the cashed-up Sitwell with award winning hair, but far be it from her to take the advice of anyone but herself.
"We can't help."
"I just…You know, we spend hours here to rebuild this and not screw it up this time, and they just want to cash in like we're a bank." He kicked his desk. "Well, no-more. I'm done with the rest of them riding our hard work." He pointed towards Maeby. "Don't give them a cent."
"I'll make sure we don't." She walked out, reappearing shortly later with a bottle of whisky in hand and a glass a third full, handing it to Michael. "Here. But don't go all Ganki on me."
He smiled at her, touching her forearm as he took the glass from her. "Thanks." Michael's desk phone rang again. "Excuse me." He picked up. "Yep. Oh, no we're not quite sure, there are pending charges."
Maeby turned on her heels and attempted to disappear without Michael seeing her, without success, him noticing her scurrying away.
"Yeah, I understand. Give me a moment." He hung up the phone. "Maeby!"
She reappeared. "Yeah?"
"What did you tell the Nevada investors?"
"Uhhh…"
"They seem to think either we are immune to litigation, or we've taken a personal guarantee about this."
"Yeah."
"Maeby, you're the CFO." He leaned into her. "If the board knew," he whispered, "they'd put back on all those conditions we convinced them to relax. The wheels would come off."
Maeby paused, realising how close they were standing, smelling the whisky on his breath. "I'm…sorry."
"Just be honest with me, okay?"
He then embraced her, stepped back and inhaled to compose himself.
But the Wagon was in motion, and in fact in train. But not with who Michael thought.
In the grey and muted prosecutors' office, Maeby sat opposite Wagon in the conference room.
"Mr Bluth." The narrow-featured Denis Wagon scanned the front page of his brief. "I have forty-eight complaints against your company."
"Yes, we still haven't heard a single name of these complainants." Michael responded.
Maeby ambled towards the drinks table, which was on the prosecutor's side of the table, taking a slight detour.
"They're names are not important."
She scanned it just in time before he slammed his file shut. "Hey, most of these are Sitwells!"
Indeed they were, because as Sitwell was trying to sabotage the Bluth campaign, to sabotage what was believed to be the primary source of Bluth company's fundraising went hand in hand. Michael was aghast.
"You can't be serious."
Wagon stood up. "That, is grounds, for contempt." He shook his pen in Maeby's face.
"You and what train? Your gaggle of complainants is our political opponents!"
"Did you want to ride it?" Wagon inched into her space.
"I can't do that."
Wagon inhaled, in the most creepy way possible. "You should, you only live once."
Michael's eyes widened.
"You know what, this company is picking up steam as I am blowing it in the right direction, I won't have you ruin this for me!" She narrowed her eyes.
"Okay okay, I think we're done for today." Michael placed his hands either side of Maeby's arms, gesturing for them to leave.
Michael was again, aghast.
"Can you believe that guy?" He walked down the building's front stone steps.
"Well, I could have gone with it…" She considered, "w[beep]ed myself out, but that's more my mother's thing."
"Yeap."
Michael let that one go through to the keeper. His job was to make dozens of homes keepers, for the thousands of Americans who had enough time to watch infomercials and afford a house in a part of Orange County shared by cactuses.
On the infomercial set, Michael gestured to the model of the model home. "And what is it today that we could be missing out on, Maeby?"
"Certainly not air conditioning, because…"
Michael cleared his throat.
Air conditioning was the first thing to go when they had to cut corners, not something you'd want to draw attention to for houses virtually built in the desert.
"it's a highly overrated thing, especially with this quality of heating!"
Micahel again cleared his throat.
"The windows are top notch!"
"Yes, that weatherproofing will go you many, many seasons."
Maeby cleared her throat.
"And comes with so many extras! Full furnished!" Michael added. "With all the quality furniture, you'll be very comfortable."
"Summer or winter!" Maeby added brightly.
As the new owners of the houses might feel to go like a goose and migrate for the seasons, Michael was in for more heat.
Michael took anther call in his office. "No, the company can't do that. No, it's not possible. Yes, I have the cheque book. Okay. Okay. Bye." He slammed the phone down, with Maeby having joined him amid the shouting.
"They're asking again?"
"Can you please conduct a thorough financial audit, and just see what exactly our expenses are." Michael mused.
"I'm already working on that, but there's a bunch of shelf companies, Pop-pop had it layered up pretty good."
"Not surprised. Can you have one done by Friday week?"
"The next board meeting? Yes."
If she had started. It was going to be a long week for Maeby, especially because she was right about George Senior's handiwork. But fuel was on its way.
Michael walked through the door, finding an exhausted Maeby consuming a Snickers bar.
"Yum, but you shouldn't be working off sugar."
"I don't think there's much sugar in these, it's not from Mexico."
"Well don't burn out, you're not you when you're hungry."
Maeby grimaced, and kept scribbling away.
And as the hours slipped away, Maeby's hand slipped off her arms, and onto her cold desk. But she wouldn't be awoken by exhaustion.
"Yoo hoo." The delivery man knocked on her door frame. "Delivery for Maeby?"
She awoke to find a man standing there with a box of Snickers. "Oh, fuel." She turned the box around. "Mexican snickers." She scrawled on his clip board and he left.
Michael walked around him through the door. "You didn't sleep here last night did you?"
"What does it look like?" Her hair looked like a birds nest, eyes sunken in her head.
"Nice looking candy there." Michael commented. "No note?"
"No, the secret admirer strikes again." She shrugged. "Must be someone here, because how would they know to send it today?"
Much like the wrapper of her American snickers on the ground, George and Lucille would not be left stranded without their candy.
Michael stood in the position closest to the door, arms folded. His sister and mother sat on the sofa, brother Buster on the other chair, his father standing near the window, and son and fiancée on the other side near the master bedroom wall.
"You don't have the power to cut off the salaries." Lucille skulled and stamped her martini down on the side table.
"They're not salaries. They're stipends. For work. You," Michael gestured, "are all consultants, which means I have complete hiring and firing power."
"We're family." Lucille shot.
"Michael, this company was set up to look after the Bluth family." George ventured.
"That was while you all owned a piece, but all of you, bar me and Maeby, have sold your pieces off. Which are now my pieces." He gazed down at the coffee table, seeing Trivial Pursuit set up. "Why were you playing that?"
"Oh, Dad thought it was a good idea I bone up on my general knowledge, nothing like Trivial Pursuit to help you learn broad knowledge." Lindsay beamed.
"Come on, Michael." Buster shook his head. "Admit it, you're too chicken to try to manage this company without us."
He then proceeded to stand up and flap his arms, and the rest of the children joined in their various versions of the chicken dance, arms flopping and wiggling, legs waggling, in all sorts of ways.
"No, I'm really not. It will really happen. Next Friday."
"Michael, you can't do this to this family." Lucille pleaded.
Maeby entered the fray, closing the door behind her, brushing hands with Michael as she stood beside him.
"When Maeby came to me asking for money, you know what I said? I said that train has departed, that wagon has moved on, if you want my candy, you have to earn it." Michael pulled Maeby in closer, his hand around her shoulder.
"This is just because you're not getting any." Lucille shook her head.
Michael's hands slipped from gripping the top of Maeby's shoulder, down slightly.
George Michael shifted uneasily away from Rebel, his eyes tracking his fathers hands.
"I can't believe this, Maeby and I have a solid partnership in fixing this company. We have gotten it back on track." Michael's arm hung uneasily around her neck. "And none of you, are getting to continue to behave as hangers-on." He yanked his arm sidewards, pulling Maeby towards him, and tripping on top of her.
"Doing more mud wrestling are you?" Lucille spat. "Well get ready, son, because we'll be down and in the dirty with you."
George Michael looked on in shock.
"Okay, okay." Michael clambered up from their feet. "We'll see you at the meeting."
In the hallway, Michael remarked, "You do know that you're getting a 50% pay increase next week? Because we can afford to pay our employees, now we're not paying the "employees"."
"Really?"
It was the easiest money Maeby had ever made, and she wondered why she hadn't conned her way into this job before.
"Yeah, I think that went well as it could."
"That newspaper must have had a wide circulation if they saw it."
"Yeah, we gotta be more careful next time." Michael patted her opposite shoulder.
And as he reassured Maeby, they again found themselves in the dirt.
Michael trips and falls on top of her.
But there was to be no more lowering of principles at this meeting, and it was all to be going full steam.
The board were seated with their executives in the board room.
"I am proposing for the board to formally remove sections of the constitution all references to George Senior Bluth and Lucille Bluth, as they both are no longer employed by this company, and to remove all of their access to the company bank accounts."
Maeby tilted her head back, sinking back into the padded chair.
Maeby wore her nicest smart black suit to the funeral of her parent's sponging off her own work. Michael, for his part, look similarly smart, and dressed to kill a stipend. But the birds had flown back to the nest of money to roost.
Lucille and George Senior rushed from the elevator, her feather coat being caught in the air as if she were to take off.
George Senior and Lucille burst into the conference room, finding a table of party food for the post-meeting festivities.
"You get away from this table, we built this company!" Lucille shrieked, her arms flying towards Michael.
He threw his arms back, pushing himself against the wall. "Can we have a minute, board?" He pleaded with the room. The group murmured among themselves, one saying "the old Bluths are back", while filing out.
"Mom, I have tried reasoning with you, none of you want to work…"
"I built this whole company!" George Senior insisted. "All it did was sell cornballers!"
The crowd had cowered in horror as George Senior splashes Richard Simmons with burning hot oil in the TV studio.
And only in Mexico. Through selected dealers.
"Dad, we have sold more houses in a month, than you sold in five years. They say Rome wasn't built in a day, but at that rate, we never would have built a suburb of Rome." Michael placed his hands on his hips.
"Yes, but I was building houses for Saddam, I divested the market exposure to this company, moved the risk."
"Moved the risk where? To the company?"
Michael was only partly right. The rest of the risk lay personally with the head of the company, which was…Michael Bluth.
"This company has always been there for the family." George Senior reached out for Michael, whispering, "And it needs to give back. Your sister needs TV advertising, and money for the launch of her integrated parents initiative, I can help you shift the money out of there."
"Maeby has been through your structure." He whispered loudly back.
"Deconstructed layer cake?" Maeby offered Ganki and Pop-pop generous helpings.
Lucille sent her the dirtiest look she had ever mustered, sticking her feathery arms in the air. "I am proud of this company and your father, proud as a peacock. You Michael," she stormed up to him, "You always claimed you were here for this family. You always said we need to stick together. And where are you now, in our hour of need?"
"I'm not buying into this." Michael shook his head.
"Maeby? You'll let your mother be without money to help improve parenting through schools?" Lucille queried.
It's a shame they hadn't launched the program when Maeby was young, because she really could have used the parenting.
Maeby didn't dignify the request with a response.
"This is the funeral of the Bluth company!" George Senior admonished.
Michael and Maeby stared back in their black suits and white shirts.
"Look, if you or the rest want to come work for the company, and put in, then come see me again. Otherwise, I'll wait to hear from you." Michael retorted.
"Bagel crisps with Pâté?" Maeby offered the plate to her Pop-pop and Ganki, receiving again dirty looks.
"We're not leaving." Lucille insisted.
"Security!" Michael called down the hall. Two beefy guys appeared.
"Oh look its hot cop…" George Senior was cut off by the muscly man dragging him from the room, Lucille hauled by the other man.
"Just hold them there…can the board resume its seats?" Michael called. When everyone was seated, Michael locked the doors and called, "all good, guys."
"You can't do this." George Senior bashed on the locked door from the outside.
"Michael! You get out here now!" Shouted Lucille.
"So regarding formally removing sections of the constitution all references to George Senior Bluth and Lucille Bluth, all in favour?"
The entire table raised its hands.
"All against?"
All of a sudden it rained pennies from the ceiling, left over from GOB's time in management.
"Motion passed. And let me assure you all, that's the last time our profit will come down in pennies."
The board chortled.
George Senior sighed in the hallway. "Well, might as well fly north."
"Don't you mean south? To Boca?" Lucille tossed her head up, the feather coat she was wearing shifting around.
"Yeah, yeah." George Senior's eyes deflected. "That's what I meant."
The gander departed with little protest, and most of the feathers intact.
A trail of feathers lead from the boardroom to the elevator, made by the two with their heads bowed and arms hanging loose before them.
"Our final business for today, approving final funding for Bluthton." Michael widened his palms, resuming his chair. "This is to proceed with the full construction, to fill every lot and fully furnish. We need to take further development money from our Nevada investors," He sent Maeby a cautious look, "But they are happy with their current returns, and our auditors have advised us we should see a profit increase this year."
Earlier that day, in fact. Which had made Mad Money, even slightly madder. In the excited sense.
Jim Cramer filled the screen, "I'm upgrading Bluth, you better believe it, to a 'cautious buy'! The Bluths are finally coming through!"
Which helped Michael convince the staff to not unlock the doors for his parents.
"Come on, I was your bosss ten years ago?" George Senior pleaded with the woman from the outside of the building.
"You fired me!" The woman glared.
"Well, you were stealing office supplies."
"I took home one paperclip which was stuck to my handbag."
George Senior averted his gaze, "You always had bad hair."
"So, we will go to a vote now?" Michael asked the group. "All those in favour?"
The entire table raised its hands.
"Unanimous. Thank you all."
The board erupted in applause, and Michael and Maeby hugged. "What a fantastic day for the Bluths."
Lucille and George approached their car in the lot below.
"You got the keys?" George asked.
Lucille riffled through her handbag. "I thought you did."
In fact, the boardroom floor had their keys. It was not going to be a good weekend for either of them.
But it would be an interesting one for Michael and Maeby, who were off to a housing conference in Phoenix to brag about selling houses through infomercials.
"So I sold ten in one day, through the power of hypnosis!" one convener had bragged.
"You too can improve your clearance rates through accepting coin!" another had bragged.
This may not have been the most prestigious event of its type.
"We're back in Phoenix! Are you excited?" Maeby stirred, dragging her wheelie bag behind her in the daggy hotel lobby.
"Why would I be?" Michael tried to hose her down.
"You always went on about leaving for here with George Michael, every time Michael Bluth was leaving, he was off to Phoenix."
"And why are you talking about me in the third person?"
"Because it's funny. You were never gonna leave."
"I was too!" Michael took umbrage. "I was serious at least…some of those times."
"Nah, you never would have. Not until now."
"Why now?"
"You aren't putting them first now."
Michael stopped at the reservation desk. "Maybe." He dinged the bell on the desk. "Two rooms under Bluth?"
The surely woman scanned her computer. "You mean one room? For two?"
"No, I asked for two rooms?"
Michael had a new PA. She wasn't very good. At anything. In fact, even Tobias would have made a better PA.
As the staff member attempted to enter Michael's office, "You get the hell outta here!" Tobias had thrown a chair in his direction.
Balancing the phone on her shoulder, the PA had filed her nails. "I need to book for two. For Bluth."
"Two rooms or a room for two?" the voice over the phone had queried.
"I dunno, whatever is easier. Just charge whoever shows up." The woman checked her phone. "Ah, lunch time."
"Well the order was for two for Bluth, so we have you in one room, sir." The receptionist insisted.
"Can we get a second room then?"
"We're all booked out, Sir." The woman rolled the final 'r' sound.
But there was another surprise. Which probably shouldn't come as a surprise.
Michael drops his bag in the doorway of their room, Maeby behind him. "There's one bed?"
Back at the reception desk, the hodgepodge crowd hobnobbed around nearby while Michael tried to get some answers.
"I'm sorry, Sir." The receptionist replied unapologetically. "There's no spare beds this weekend due to the conference. I'll have them send up a complimentary welcome pack. Sir."
Michael furrowed his brow. "But that's complimentary."
"Only to special guests, Sir."
"Why is it a 'complimentary welcome pack' then?"
"I don't name things, Sir."
So Michael and Maeby returned to their shared room with its shared bed.
Michael laid his bag on the ground. "Is this going to work? I mean, one of us could sleep on the floor…"
"Michael, we're speaking tomorrow, we can't be bunking on the floor, we'll just have to do the whole 'bunking cousins' thing."
"Because that's a thing. You're right, we've got 20 minutes to be out on the floor, mingling."
And 25 to be on stage presenting. Because this highly prestigious conference had not sent the Bluths the running sheet, so neither of them knew they had been brought forward by a day.
In the 90s foyer, a woman with a clipboard approached them. "Michael, Maeby, you're up next."
"Wait, what?" Michael was beside himself.
"Michael, we'll be fine, just follow my lead." Maeby whispered and patted him on the back.
"Did you know about this?" Michael demanded as they rushed towards the stage.
"Of course not. But this hotel f[beep]ed up our booking, is it a stretch to think they'd do a f[beep]ed up job with the conference?"
"Maeby, you're in a room of our peers who may be able to hear you."
"Sorry, language was the first thing to go when the set got stressed."
It was.
Andy Richter had hurled his Donut against the wall of the small trailer. "What the f[beep] is this? S[beep] f[beep]ing quality crap? Is anyone f[beep] f[beep]?"
"Andy, Andy, we'll get you a f[beep]ing cruller, with f[beep]ing custard, just get the f[beep]ing piece costume back on." Maeby had placated.
"I don't know why I agreed to do a movie about Trivial Pursuit."
"The 80s is f[beep] in remember? This will help you beat those f[beep] f[beep] f[beeping]ing s[beeps]."
"F[beep]."
From the stage lined in black fabric with a white spotlight, the compare announced, "And next we have the Californian company who turned around their profits in a month using the power of infomercials. Give it up for the Bluth Company's Michael Bluth and Maeby Bluth!"
Michael winced with the supposedly incorrect name.
"Hi everyone, I'm Michael, CEO, and this is Maeby, CFO, and we have turned around the Bluth Company in a bit over six short weeks."
"We have used the power of the infomercial to draw attention to our product offerings, highlight our competitive advantage, and signpost our expansionary and synergism intentions to our customers."
This may have sounded a bit familiar to some in the audience, as it was the same spiel she had used dozens of times with investors.
"…and signpost our expansionary and synergism intentions to our customers." She had used the laser pointer against the whiteboard in the dour boardroom.
"And using these strategies, we have found a doubling of profits across a single month. If we look at those trends, that means a…"
"That means we intend to build on our profits going into the future." Michael interrupted her.
The SEC were almost certainly in the room, and the wheels would fall off if Maeby gave clear indications to the market in a public space.
"But back on the power of the infomercial, can you run the room through what inspired you to suggest them, Maeby?"
"Absolutely, for many…"
This back and forth went on for another half hour, until there was time for questions.
The crowd finished their applause of the pair, who had their arms around each others shoulders.
"Michael and Maeby, I've been trying to build a family business for years, I have siblings that won't work but want to cash in, parents who keep interfering, and issues with regulators. Do you think your marriage is the secret to the success of your business?"
"First of all, Maeby isn't a Bluth, her name is Fünke," Michael insisted.
Actually, her name is Bluth.
George Michael had unfolded his marriage certificate to her, mailed from the state of California.
Because she is married to a Bluth, just not the one on stage with her. And the conference had used legal names.
"And secondly, you'll need to look at restructuring your business, and discussing how your family can contribute."
Or you could go the more direct route, as Michael actually did. When the business executives were done for their hour, they returned to the foyer.
"I'm gonna see if our welcome pack has arrived." Michael headed towards the elevator.
"I'll see you up there."
Just then Maeby's actual husband called, amid setting up for his engagement party.
George Michael stood in the airport hanger of an office, holding the phone to his ear. "Hey, Maeby, how are things?"
"Oh, you know, hot, but not wet or steamy."
"Really?"
"I'm in Phoenix with Michael."
"Speaking of dad, how did the meeting go?"
"Ganki and Pop-pop aren't on the payroll anymore." Maeby said flatly.
"What are you doing in Phoenix?"
"Just a conference. You would not believe it, they stuck us in the same room, with one bed."
"Oh. And they can't fix it?"
"Comically, apparently not."
"Right. I better go."
"Hey good luck with the engagement party."
"Thanks." He mumbled. He then dialled again.
Michael answered his phone, coming through the hotel room door. "Hey son, how are you? Sorry I can't be there tonight."
"That's fine. You and Maeby having a good time?"
"Yeah, they've put us in this really spacious room with a balcony."
"One room?"
"Yeah. Mix up. We were supposed to get two."
"Huh, how about that."
Michael Bluth had usually told his son when something had bothered him, with not much prying. Usually too much information.
At the model home, Michael had grimaced. "George Michael, I'm sure that Egg is a very nice person, I just don't want you spendin' all your money gettin' her all glittered up for Easter, you know? I don't think you're ready." He had laid his hand on George Michael's shoulder.
From his hospital bed, Michael had tried to lean up. "I told Lindsay not to teach him, I was going to video tape that hop-on…I was going to teach you, you know that. Just forget everything she taught you and we'll start over."
"Yeah." Michael left hanging.
"I'll leave you to it."
"Thanks, and good luck with tonight! I know you two are made for each other."
George Michael felt like his father had returned the slug, to the gut. "Thanks."
Back at the hotel room, Michael had found his welcome pack. Full of spa vouchers, massage for two, and a Bluth favourite…
"…body chocolate." Michael read the label.
…just as Maeby had returned from returned from wagon wheels.
In a side room of the conference centre, Maeby had held court with the charming character that was Dennis Wagon. "Maeby. Still talking up those infomercials I see."
"Yes. Haven't the charges been dropped yet? Or are you awaiting further depositions from Sitwells?" She had retorted.
"Maybe we could talk about this in your room."
"Maybe you could talk about this with Bob Loblaw." She had passed him a card.
"I don't have time for Bob Loblaw! You Bluths keep coming up again and again, we could fix things today." He had looked her up and down. "Without the use of the wheel. Because I will have you, Maeby."
"Oh my God, no." She had ditched her coffee on a refreshments table.
Maeby shut the room door behind her. "Oh, a massage and a spa, just what I need." She went into her suitcase, pulling out something, and returned from the bathroom in a string bikini. "You wanna come?"
"Yep."
Michael and Maeby enjoyed the bubbles, with the complimentary bubbly, in the heart shaped tub. This shape was due to the logo of the hotel being a heart. Unfortunately, with the multiple mergers and a messy family split with the Hatecher family, the original 'Loveheart' name of the hotel had given way to a compromise.
"I can't say that the Hatelove Hotel has been the best experience, but this sure beats boardroom meetings." Michael mused.
"The goose liver pate was pretty good though."
"You were really good today, you did like 90% of the work up there."
"Ten years in showbiz has to count for something."
"No, I don't know what I'd have done without you." His hand travelled up her shoulder.
Maeby smilled. "Well, I don't know if I could have quite told Ganki and Pop-pop so clearly they couldn't keep writing cheques from the company accounts."
"A guy has gotta be useful for something." He winked at her.
"I'd so love to watch Walls Street tonight, so gritty."
But all good spa's must come to an end.
"Michael and Maeby Bluth, please return to the conference hall." The PA boomed distortedly into the room.
"I have gotta get on top of that Maeby Bluth…" Michael mumbled, pulling himself out of the tub.
And as the pair sought to return, they once again got themselves caught in a further entanglement.
Back in the hotel room, Michael tripped forward onto the bed, and they found themselves wrapped around each other, nose to nose, still in swimwear. Not saying a word for what seemed like eternity, but was more like half a minute.
"You have really blue eyes." Maeby remarked quietly.
"I don't know how many freckles you have on your face, but so far I've counted 128."
"I hate them."
"I think they're cute."
"Michael and Maeby Bluth, please come in the conference hall."
"We better get onto that." Michael pondered.
As they returned to the hall, applause broke out. "Here they are, the Bluths, who have achieved from Mad Money's 'don't buy' to a 'Buy' in five short weeks! And are in construction of a groundbreaking new development, 'Bluthton'. Please welcome to the stage our winner of the Californian Achievers Award!"
As Phantom Planet's California blasted through the hall, Michael subconsciously took her wrist as they powered towards the stage.
"Thank you. Thank you everyone." Michael blathered, "They say Rome wasn't built in a day, with Maeby, we almost have. Thank you everyone. Do you have anything to add?" He stepped aside from the microphone.
"Michael Bluth has tried all kinds of stuff throughout the years to make this company great. Finally, he did the one thing that could only have worked – he shed himself of the interference that has plagued it for decades. Now, we are the strongest we have ever been. Thank you."
Michael took her hand and lifted it high in the air, the other holding up the award. They left the stage to the chorus of California.
Back in the room, the winners were grinners.
"I didn't know conferences gave out awards?" Maeby settled onto the bed.
"This place is full of surprises." Michael remarked, heading to answer the knock on the door. "It's for you?"
"Delivery for Maeby Fünke?" He held out the clipboard.
Tearing it open, she found a DVD of the 1980s film, Walls Street.
"Another delivery from the mystery admirer." She flipped over the package. "Wait, no, this has your name on it?"
"Oh." Michael looked uncomfortable, "This is why I never moved to Phoenix…"
"No, you never moved here because it's hot and the rest of the family wasn't here." She stepped towards him. "You sent me all of that stuff, didn't you?"
Michael looked sheepish. "Yeah, I did. You didn't seem to have a date for Valentine's Day, and you look liked you needed your favourite candy."
Maeby beamed. "It's very sweet." She picked up from the bed, "Body chocolate?"
"Maybe."
Back in the actual California, George Michael phoned in the engagement party, feeling like he was experiencing de ja vu.
The room was full of movie types in hipster clothing. In the background, My Love by JT was buzzing the room.
"You're so lucky, she's such a lovely woman." The studio exec lifted the Champaign flute.
"Yeah, she was very talented." George Michael concurred.
"What do you mean, she's still working there?" she gestured to Rebel.
"Her?" George Michael returned to reality. "Oh of course, I meant she'd just taken a break. For Lem."
"Of course, she always does that…"
George Michael's phone sounded, and looking he found a picture of the body chocolate.
'Haha, what were they thinking – Maeby'
And the rest was a blur.
In the dead of night, George Michael stood outside on the balcony, a bottle against the glass and half empty glass in hand with brown liquor.
"Are you coming to bed?"
"I will soon." He called back.
He took another slip, shifting around.
The hours slipped away, as did most of the bottle, and he found himself achieving a Bluth milestone, getting drunk in the dark.
George Michael leaned into the couch, staring into space in the unlit room. Later, his head dropped to one side, and he fell asleep, the bottle in his hand.
From Midnight in Balboa Bay, it struck eleven in Phoenix, the two finished the cheap Champaign in the basket, on the balcony of their large room with the single bed.
"I can safely say, Rome wasn't built in a day, but we've done our best." Michael filled the glass.
"I don't think there's anyone down there that has matched us." Maeby took a flute.
"No, but it's an interesting conference."
"That would be an understatement."
"Oh, an email from the SEC. The charges have been dropped. It's the end of the Wagon ride."
"I wonder why."
Maeby had hit record on her phone when the last tirade had come from Wagon, and then emailed it to the SEC. Which had helped them make a decision.
"We've gotta stop employing single men in their 40s." The director had bemoaned from across his desk.
"Who else would work for us?" The thin male with rounded glasses had queried.
Who indeed.
"Why didn't you ever get involved before?" Michael asked.
"The management of this company…just infighting between you and the family. Not worth it."
"Well I'm glad you accepted my offer."
She smiled.
"I've been meaning to ask you…I haven't kept you away from anyone, have I?" Michael repositioned against the balcony.
"No, I should probably tell you…I'm a registered sex offender."
"How?"
"I had sex with a seventeen year old."
"Huh." Michael shook his head. "There's so much I don't know about you."
"Not really. I'm married to George Michael though. For eight years."
"How?"
"Mock wedding, apparently you signed the certificate?"
"Wow."
"Yeap."
"I wonder who forged my signature that time, just confirms why I don't care about the family anymore… And apart from that, I don't know why you're single. You're gorgeous, feisty, intelligent…"
"You know, you're the first guy who's said anything like that in years."
Michael had nothing to say back, as his eyes did the talking for him, as fireworks broke out in the distance, reds, pinks, and whites.
Maeby leaned up to meet his semi-parted lips, softly kissing them, then pulling away to see the rawness in his eyes. His palms slid over her from front to back, moaning into her mouth, her arms wrapping around his head, pulling him closer. They continued to embrace, the fireworks climaxing with a heart.
On the next episode of Bluthton, Michael tries to fire his incompetent PA gently,
The woman looks up to see a delivery man with a bunch of daisies. "Ugh, a signature." She scrawls on his clipboard and looks in the bouquet for the sender. "That secret admirer again? Oh well, eleven, lunch time."
But is thwarted by the same flower delivery man again.
The delivery man's wheel screech forward, causing the flower card to flip over.
'Sorry about the loss of your job. Regards, Michael Bluth.'