Blood on the Canvas, Gold on the Screen

Chapter 72: Truffle Macaroni Negotiation

Inside Soundstage 16, the production rhythm had undergone a drastic tectonic shift. The ecosystem, formerly filled with anxiety, pretentious directions, and exhausting retakes, now operated with the silent, lethal precision of factory machinery. The crew, passively under the influence of Alex Turner’s [Iron Curtain], moved in a coordinated, highly efficient silence.

Fifteen minutes after the "coffee cup trauma" crisis was ruthlessly resolved by Alex, the heavy soundstage doors creaked open.

A young production assistant (PA), his uniform soaked in sweat, sprinted inside, panting heavily. In his hands, he held a small brown paper bag as if it were a human organ ready for transplant. He searched with frantic eyes, pushing past the sea of black cables and lighting crew, until his eyes found the figure of the man in the white t-shirt leaning back in the Executive Producer chair at Video Village.

The PA approached with hesitant steps, as if approaching a sleeping lion. His hands trembled as he held out the paper bag.

"E-excuse me, sir," the PA whispered, his voice shaking. "This... this is your jalapeño cheddar bagel. Twice toasted, with a light schmear of cream cheese on one side. The bakery off the lot was almost sold out, but I... I managed to persuade them."

Alex slowly opened his eyes. He didn’t take the bag immediately. His dark eyes, as calm as an oceanic abyss, stared at the young PA who looked as though he was bracing for an execution.

Alex reached out, took the paper bag, and opened it. The sharp, warm aroma of toasted cheese and sliced jalapeño wafted into the cold air of the soundstage. He took a slow bite, chewed lazily, and gave an appreciative nod.

"Perfectly toasted," Alex praised, his deep voice echoing with absolute satisfaction. "Good work. You can stop shaking now. I’m not going to eat you."

The PA let out a sigh of relief so loud it sounded like a deflating tire, his shoulders slumping. "T-thank you, sir!"

Jennifer Aniston, who was sitting in a canvas chair next to him re-reading the revised script, covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

"You just made that production assistant feel like he was awarded a Medal of Honor, Alex," Jennifer whispered after the PA hurriedly scurried away. "And you didn’t even explicitly say please or thank you."

"Appreciation doesn’t require sweet words, Jen. Appreciation requires the acknowledgment of efficiency," Alex replied, closing his eyes again and chewing his bagel slowly. "Your director should learn from that assistant. Retrieving a bagel requires clear logic. Directing a film works the exact same way."

Across the set, Tristan Montgomery sat with his arms crossed in his own folding chair, positioned far away from Video Village. The director looked like a man who had just survived an alien abduction, staring blankly at the faux wooden floor, not daring to give a single rambling direction.

However, the peace on Soundstage 16 was merely the calm in the eye of the storm. Three blocks away, in the luxurious, black-glass office building that served as the headquarters of Warner Bros. Studios, a high-level crisis was detonating.

Warner Bros. Executive Tower. 11:45 AM PST.

Gregory Hale, the President of Network Broadcasting, had just poured a glass of ice water and opened a bottle of antacids. His stomach was still burning from the horrific confrontation at the Beverly Hills Hotel a few days prior. Jennifer Aniston’s revised contract had been signed, and the board of directors had "suggested" Gregory take a few days off to calm his nerves.

Right as he was about to swallow the antacid pill, the landline on his mahogany desk rang with the urgent, internal red-line ringtone.

Only a handful of people had access to that red line. Gregory put his glass down and picked up the receiver with a sinking feeling.

"Hale," he answered firmly.

"Gregory! It’s David, the Line Producer at Soundstage 16!" The voice on the other end sounded like someone reporting an armed bank robbery. "We have a situation! A Level One situation! Security at the main gate just reported that a convoy of unmarked SUVs just breached the lot!"

"A convoy? On our studio lot?!" Gregory stood up from his chair. "Call security! Lock down the set!"

"That’s not the problem, Gregory!" David half-yelled. "Security opened the gates for them! The convoy was escorting Jennifer Aniston. And Gregory... the guy is with her."

Gregory froze. The blood felt like it was being siphoned right out of his toes. The antacid pill in his hand tumbled onto the thick carpet.

"Which guy?" Gregory whispered, even though he already knew the answer.

"The guy in the black t-shirt from the gala last Friday!" David squeaked, his voice strained. "Gregory, he’s on our set right now! He’s wearing grey sweatpants! He just insulted Tristan Montgomery in front of the entire crew, took over Video Village, and demanded a production assistant sprint off the lot to find a jalapeño bagel! Frank the First AD doesn’t even dare to breathe too loudly near him!"

Gregory Hale felt his knees give out. He dropped back into his massive leather chair.

The Ghost. The owner of Tyrant Group LLC. The man who had choked Tommy Mottola half to death financially and had held an invisible gun to the head of Warner Bros.

He is inside the studio.

If the man was throwing a tantrum on set, it meant he wasn’t satisfied with the contract amendments. It meant he was looking for an excuse to shut down this three-hundred-million-dollar production entirely.

"Don’t do anything, David," Gregory ordered, his voice trembling with absolute urgency. "Do not let security approach him. Do not let Tristan speak to him. Evacuate anyone who annoys him. I am heading there right now."

Gregory slammed the phone down. He sprinted out of his office, ignoring his bewildered secretary, and frantically jammed the elevator button. He had to neutralize this ticking time bomb before the man decided to buy the studio and fire them all.

Fifteen minutes later, an executive golf cart sped at maximum velocity—which wasn’t very fast, but dangerous enough to make several extras dive out of the way—across the alleyways between the soundstages.

Gregory Hale, accompanied by his equally pale VP of Production, jumped off the cart before it even came to a complete stop in front of Door 16.

They took a deep breath, bracing themselves to see a devastated set, perhaps with the crew on strike or Jennifer Aniston in tears.

Gregory pushed the heavy acoustic door open.

Instead of chaos, Gregory was greeted by a harmonious, orderly working rhythm. The camera was gliding smoothly along the dolly track. The lighting was being adjusted in silence. No one was yelling.

And in a dim corner, at the absolute epicenter of the location’s dominance, Alex Turner was leaning back in the Executive Producer’s chair. He had finished half of his bagel.

Gregory signaled for his VP of Production to stay back, then stepped forward cautiously. As he penetrated the boundary of the [Iron Curtain], the psychological pressure hit him instantly. A cold chill crept down the back of his neck. The man didn’t look angry; he looked like he ruled the world.

"M-Mr. Turner," Gregory called out softly, standing at a safe distance, not daring to block Alex’s view of the monitors.

Alex stopped chewing. He turned his head slightly, looking at the President of Network Broadcasting from beneath his messy, dark raven bangs.

"Gregory," Alex greeted casually, wiping a crumb of cheese from his finger. "You look like you just ran a marathon in a three-thousand-dollar suit. Can the studio not afford air conditioning for your golf carts?"

Jennifer, who was sitting next to Alex, had to bite her lower lip hard to keep from bursting into laughter at the sight of the most terrifying executive at Warner Bros. sweating cold like a schoolboy caught cheating.

"We... we received a report that you were on set, Mr. Turner," Gregory said, ignoring the taunt, trying to muster a diplomatic smile that looked more like a grimace of pain. "I came down personally to ensure that you and Ms. Aniston are receiving everything you need. Is Tristan... is our director giving you any trouble?"

Alex cast a quick glance at Tristan, who was still huddled in the corner of the set, looking at Gregory as if silently pleading for rescue.

"Tristan possesses a psychological disorder that leads him to believe pain is entertainment," Alex evaluated flatly. "However, we have corrected that philosophy. Production is now running on schedule. Jen will be leaving this lot at exactly 6:00 PM."

Gregory swallowed hard. "Of course, sir. Of course."

The Network President stared at the young man. His mind as a corporate executive began spinning at the speed of light. This man, despite his incredibly extreme laziness, possessed absolute vision and control. He made the crew work at maximum efficiency simply by existing. And most importantly, his presence here was a rare opportunity to tie Tyrant Group to Warner Bros.

Gregory cleared his throat, gathering the courage to take a step forward. It was a massive gamble, but potentially highly lucrative.

"Mr. Turner," Gregory began, adopting a very cautious business tone. "Your presence here today has proven... highly illuminating for the efficiency of our production. In fact, the board of directors and I have been discussing your unique position in the entertainment industry ever since the amendment to Ms. Aniston’s contract."

Alex raised a single eyebrow. "Gregory, if you are about to ask me to read a script, I am going to throw the rest of this bagel at your face."

Gregory chuckled nervously. "No, sir! Not at all! We know your time is extremely valuable. However, Warner Bros. Television is looking for ways to ensure high-level production stability in the future. We... we would like to offer you a formal position as an Executive Consultant for our network."

Jennifer turned her head quickly, her eyes wide.

"An exclusive contract," Gregory continued quickly, pulling a thin envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket as if it were a peace offering. "It requires no set hours. You do not have to come into the office. You do not have to read scripts. We simply ask that your name, or your LLC entity, be attached as an advisor to our flagship projects, and that you occasionally... oversee production operations, much like you are doing today."

Gregory placed the envelope very gently on the coffee table near Alex’s feet.

"The compensation is two million dollars a year, paid upfront," Gregory whispered. "Simply as a retainer fee."

The studio was trying to buy "The Ghost." They were trying to use two million dollars as a golden leash to secure Alex’s psychological dominance for Warner Bros.’ benefit, preventing him from committing future sabotage while simultaneously elevating their own prestige amidst the industry’s fear.

Alex stared at the white envelope on the table. Then, he looked at the remainder of the jalapeño bagel in his hand.

[DING!]

[Minor Event Triggered: The Corporate Leash.]

[Description: A major television network is attempting to purchase the Host’s sovereignty with a lucrative consultancy position.]

[Reward Calculation Pending based on Host’s response...]

"Two million dollars," Alex repeated slowly. His voice showed no excitement, only a kind of profound, deep exhaustion.

"Yes, sir. And that is just the initial offer," Gregory interjected enthusiastically.

Alex let out a long sigh and placed the rest of his bagel on a paper napkin. He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back.

"Gregory," Alex said, his voice extremely calm, almost like a patient teacher explaining something to a slow-learning student. "The concept of an ’Executive Consultant’ implies that I have an obligation to you. Obligation means that if your production falls apart, you will call me. If an actor has a nervous breakdown, you will call me."

Alex’s dark eyes stared piercingly at the Network President, projecting an absolute chill.

"If you call me, my phone will ring," Alex continued without pausing. "If my phone rings, my nap is interrupted. Do you really think two million dollars is enough to purchase the right to interrupt my nap schedule?"

Gregory was speechless. The absurd yet terrifyingly sound logic left the executive completely unable to offer a logical rebuttal.

"I don’t want your money, Gregory," Alex stated, his tone turning final. "Storing your money requires me to read tax reports, and my eyes are tired of reading rows of numbers."

The rejection was absolute. Warner Bros. had just been slapped with the reality that they were too poor—in the context of freedom—to buy this man.

However, before Gregory could withdraw the envelope in crushing shame, Alex lowered his arms and pointed toward the edge of the set.

"That being said," Alex remarked in his lazy voice, "since you came all the way down here... I do have one structural complaint regarding how you run this set."

Gregory swallowed hard, bracing himself for a demand for high-level management restructuring or the firing of the director. "Of course, Mr. Turner. What needs to be fixed?"

Alex pointed straight at a long table covered in a black tablecloth near the entrance of the soundstage.

"The craft services table on this set is a humanitarian tragedy," Alex complained with a level of disappointment that was entirely serious. "They only serve reheated coffee, overly hard apples, and cheap cookies that taste like wet cardboard. For a thirty-million-dollar production, the fact that I had to send a PA sprinting off the lot just to get a decent bagel is an unforgivable logistical failure."

Jennifer, who had been trying to maintain a serious expression, bit her lip so hard tears almost sprang to her eyes trying to hold back her laughter.

Gregory Hale blinked. He stared at the catering table, then looked back at the sharp-tongued young man in front of him.

"The... the catering table?" Gregory repeated weakly.

"Yes, Gregory. The catering," Alex insisted. "I am rejecting your two-million-dollar contract. But if you want me to occasionally sit in this chair and make sure your director doesn’t destroy your television series, you are going to do one thing for me. Starting tomorrow morning, I want a dedicated craft services table set up exclusively for Jen and myself. I want hot truffle macaroni and cheese, served on porcelain plates. I want sparkling mineral water imported directly from Italy, and I want chocolate croissants baked fresh every two hours."

Alex leaned his head back, his eyes slowly fluttering shut again.

"If you can ensure that food supply is never interrupted while Jen is on set," Alex murmured with his eyes closed, "I will let Warner Bros. remain standing. If not, I am going to buy your studio cafeteria and turn it into my private bicycle parking lot."

The silence that followed was a combination of utter bewilderment and insane corporate relief. The Network Television President had just been financially rejected, yet managed to bribe the most dangerous entity in Hollywood with truffle mac and cheese.

"I-I understand, Mr. Turner," Gregory Hale said, bowing slightly with deep respect. "I will personally call the head of studio catering right now. There will be no more hard apples or cardboard cookies."

"You’re a good man, Gregory. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out."

Gregory snatched back his two-million-dollar contract envelope and quickly turned around, marching out of the soundstage with his VP of Production as if they had just successfully defused a nuclear bomb.

[DING!]

[Milestone Achieved: The Culinary Extortionist.]

[Description: The Host successfully leveraged corporate terror to secure high-end personal catering without committing to a single hour of labor.]

[Reward: +10 System Points (SP). Current SP: 260.]

After the heavy soundstage doors closed behind the executives, Jennifer finally exploded. She burst out laughing, her bright, crisp laughter echoing throughout Video Village.

"Alex!" Jennifer shrieked, lightly smacking his shoulder. "You just turned down two million dollars for macaroni and cheese?!"

Alex didn’t even open his eyes. He merely shifted his shoulders slightly to find a more comfortable position in the expensive producer’s chair.

"Truffle macaroni and cheese, Jen," Alex corrected with a lazy mumble. "Details are critical in business negotiations. Now, please get back to the set. Don’t forget to yell at the barista, and wake me up when your shift ends at exactly six o’clock."

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