The plane touched down at Newark International Airport, and as the three of them stepped outside, they grimaced at the sight of their ride. The person sent to pick them up appeared rather out of place.
Upon reaching the parking lot, their frowns deepened as they watched the driver pull up in a beat-up, old pickup truck. "Seriously? This is the best you could do?" they thought, exchanging glances.
"Get in, guys! I promise you a big surprise," Jeff, the driver, said with a grin. He looked different now—his bird tattoo was gone, his long hair had been cut, and he was clean-shaven. Dressed in a plain old suit, he barely resembled the gangster they once knew.
Reluctantly, the three climbed into the truck, brushing off the thick layer of dust on the seats. They grumbled under their breath but knew they had to make the best of it. As they drove further out of the city, the roads became increasingly desolate.
"Where are we going?" one of them suddenly shouted, a sense of unease creeping in. "I want to get out!"
In response, Jeff pulled out a pistol, spinning it casually on his fingers before pressing it against the temple of the screenwriter sitting in the passenger seat. "How about you rethink that?" he said coldly.
"I-I won't get out," the screenwriter stammered, his face pale and legs trembling as panic set in.
The remaining two were equally shaken. They had come here because Sean had asked them to write scripts for crime shootouts, and now their minds raced with dark scenarios—traps, torture, and even gruesome endings.
Seeing their fearful expressions, Jeff couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. "Just a little scare," he thought, but deep down, he knew they were in for more than just a thrill.
The truck continued on in silence until they reached a military base. The towering walls and barbed wire outside sent their hearts racing. "What kind of employer is this?" they wondered. All thoughts of collaborating with a novice client vanished; their only hope now was to leave Newark in one piece.
The heavy iron gate swung open, and the pickup truck rolled in after the barriers were lifted.
"Welcome to X Security Company!" Jeff announced, jumping out of the truck with enthusiasm.
Curious onlookers, all fresh from training, surrounded them, armed and ready. The sight was intimidating—burly men with rifles and even rocket launchers stood around the three screenwriters, making them feel like vulnerable deer caught in headlights.
Just then, Sean appeared, breaking the tension. "What's going on here?" he called out, eyeing the chaotic scene. "This isn't the time for this!"
He quickly dismissed the crowd, who had been overly enthusiastic in their welcome. As they shuffled away, Sean turned his attention to the three screenwriters, noticing their disheveled appearance. "What happened to you guys?" he asked, concerned.
"Just a little introduction," one of them managed to say, trying to regain composure.
Once they were settled in his office, Sean leaned back in his chair, legs casually crossed on the desk. "Did you receive the invitation?"
"Yes, we did," they replied, still trying to shake off the earlier chaos.
"Then how are you planning to work for me?" he asked, his tone serious.
"Whatever you need," one of them responded, trying to sound confident.
"Great! Do you know why you're here?" Sean asked, a glint of mischief in his eye.
"To write scripts?" one of them ventured.
"Exactly," Sean said, tossing a file onto the floor before them. "This is a recent bank robbery. Can you adapt a script based on this real case?"
The three exchanged hesitant glances, their initial enthusiasm dimmed by the day's events.
"What's it going to be?" Sean pressed, narrowing his eyes.
With a resigned nod, they agreed, "Yes, we can adapt it."
There are many people who have plunged headlong into Hollywood and taken advantage of it, but someone who resorts to threats right from the start is truly rare.
Even for movies, not even the best filmmakers like Bada can guarantee box office success.
"Let's go over a few principles for the adaptation," Sean began. "First, the entire plot should emphasize the robbers' preparation process. It must be professional, precise, detailed, and reproducible.
"Second, after the robbery, the confrontation between the gangsters and the police has to be intense and exciting.
"Third, the police must not appear incompetent. They need to be well-organized and courageous.
"Fourth, in the end, the robbers should fail to escape due to some unforeseen accidents and be shot dead by the police. Emphasize that if it weren't for the accident, they would've made off with the money, heading abroad to enjoy the sun, the beach, and beautiful women!"
As Sean laid out his demands, the three screenwriters exchanged bewildered looks. This didn't sound like a serious movie at all.
"Can you do it?" Sean pressed.
The three nodded quickly.
"Alright then. To give you a more personal experience, someone will show you around for a while. You'll be separated and each of you will write the script. You have three days. After three days, I'll compare your scripts.
"I only want the best!" Sean pointed at them. "The best one will earn $50,000."
"And the ones who don't measure up..." Sean shook his head regretfully.
A shiver ran down their spines. What did this mean? Were the ones who wrote poorly going to die?
Jeff entered and led the anxious trio outside. Three cars were parked at the base gate, each with tattooed men waiting by the doors.
"These guys will show you how robbers and gangsters live. I hope to see you again in three days. Go." Jeff gave them a push, and they stumbled into the arms of three burly men who then shoved them into the cars.
Sean wasn't concerned about how much the three would be scared tonight. Lamb had taught him various methods in Hollywood. To navigate Hollywood, you need to understand that the profession most privy to secrets in the United States is the 'accountant'.
Even film companies as prominent as Golden Harvest had been swindled in Hollywood.
Sean didn't expect any preferential treatment as a newcomer to the treacherous Hollywood landscape.
So, why play by Hollywood's rules?
Wouldn't it be better to follow his own rules?
As long as he didn't mess with the big film companies, if any small companies dared to cheat him...
Well, then they'd have to gamble on whether his gun had bullets!