Star Trek: Inside Out

[RobertScorpio]

Star Trek;
Inside Out

Main Characters;

Matt Winston;
Producer of ‘bubble gum’ action shows of the 80s and 90s, has been approached by ABC to produce a new Star Trek TV show, with a twist; this one has to get ratings. With a small budget to work with, but the 9pm Tuesday timeslot, he has to make it work. This is his last chance to be relevant after his last production, a TV show about a hamster that solved crime using paranormal powers, flopped big time on NBC.

Guy Moore;
The network boss who will help keep Winston on track. Moore has all the power and will be sure to suggest plot devices and ideas to make this new show work. His main reason for being the ‘network boss’ is that his father, Garrett Moore, is the President of ABC-TV.

Susie Edmonds;
She is Matt’s secretary, but is also having an affair with Matt. She also wants to be a star someday, and will be sure that Star Trek is her ticket.

William Sergeant; (real name Myron Inglehopper)
He is a 40 something TV-star. In his mind he is the greatest TV star of all time, having starred on no less that four previous TV shows. But, to the rest of the world, he is seen as an actor who can barely act and his star is fading. This is his last chance to hit the big times. His previous four TV stints were mediocre hits, at best.

Thomas Jefferson;
He runs the catering truck that serves the stars during the filming of episodes. He is African-American and is proud of the fact that he can trace his roots all the way back to the third President of the United States. But he also has much wisdom which he will try to use to help the flawed production of the new Star Trek show.

Star Trek; Inside Out
The show will explore the funny side, and serious side, of producing a Star Trek TV show. From writers who have no idea what they are doing, and Network memos that demand things to be done to help the show that make no sense at all.


Coming soon…

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK;
Inside Out
“Matt”



A beer can flew through the air, tumbling as it did so. At this same moment, on the other side of the world, a war was being fought with many casualties. And, high above in space, a Russian cosmonaut and his American comrade were standing on the outside of the international space station with Sharpie pens, writing graffiti on the hull.

Matt Winston, with two cigarettes hanging from his mouth, made a fist as the beer can he threw actually ended up in the trash can he was aiming at. Though it was a small victory; Eight other cans he had thrown in the past half hour had missed.

He was sitting in a lounge chair on the font deck of his Malibu home. From the deck, he had a wonderful view of the ocean. He had bought the house for six million bucks, back in the 80s, when his career was at its peak. Matt Winston was a television producer. He had a talent for knowing what the public wanted to see, and making it on a dime.

The first hit show he produced was called Moppers. It followed a crew of seven janitors who worked at a local mall, and interacted with the shoppers. It had the typical racial make up that all shows had in the 80s. There were three white characters, including a pensive older man who had graduated from Harvard. Then there was the delusional white jock, and with him, his blond girl friend with big boobs. They were joined by four lesser characters, to represent minorities of course. There was the Blackman, who had been a pimp. And then there was the Mexican, illegal of course. There was the Jewish man who ran his company into the ground. And finally, for laughs, the midget Amish man who had a perpetual erection, though the script could never actually say that.

Network shows, for the most part, were hardly the creation of serious thought, but were, and still are, driven by ratings, cost of creation, and hip factor. Who cared if the characters were racist stereotypes? As long as the show made money, it didn’t matter. And “Moppers” was a hit for three seasons. Then is started to fade in season four, and barely got a fifth season made to make the syndication cut. To make the show seem fresh, the Moppers were taken out of the mall setting and set inside of a zoo. But, the show had seen better times, and was axed. The decline of “Moppers” was fine with Matt Winston, because he had bigger and brighter ideas. His first post-Moppers show was called Mechs. It was new show that centered around seven mechanics at a local garage. There were three white characters, along with a Blackman, a Mexican immigrant. The Garage was managed by a Jewish man, who had a midget nephew. “Mechs” ran for five seasons as well.

Several more shows would come out of the basic ‘seven cast’ formula. Finally it came to and end when the last of the shows, called “Cookers”, tanked after one season. It centered on the goings on at a local eatery. It stared three white characters, a Black waitor, a Mexican cook, a Jewish owner and his midget wife. Matt was sure that the change to a female midget, in the formula, would work. It didn’t. Even when it was finally written that she was a transvestite, it still didn’t work.

After a string of other flops, producer Matt Winston was no longer a rising star, but a flushing piece of crap. Finally all that he had was his Malibu house. Because he had blown the rest of his fortune on drugs, prostitutes, and donations to the Republican party, he found him self the only person who owned beach front property in Malibu, who also owned and drove a Geo-metro.

As he opened up another can of beer, his phone rang. No doubt it was another bill collector, Matt thought. He reached over and saw that it was his agent’s number. No doubt his agent had found him another commercial to produce. It didn’t pay a lot, but it did pay the bills.

“What do you have for me now, Stu?” Matt asked as he flipped open the phone. “If it’s another God Damn tampon commercial; no!”

Matt listened to Stu talk.

“Matt,” Stu’s voice said, “have you ever seen that show Star Trek?”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Matt said, “the one with the guy with pointed ears. What about it?”

“They want you to make a new Star Trek show.” Stu said. “They think you’re the perfect guy.”

“Wait a second,” Matt said, “What the hell did you tell them? How am I going to make some show about some dude with pointed ears? I hated those Hobbit movies.”

“They’re giving you free reign,” Stu said. “You get to come up with the concept. However, it can’t be that damn formula of yours.”

“No midgets?” Matt said.

“Actually,” Stu said, “the network said a Midget is okay since there might be alien midgets out in space. Just don’t give them never ending hard-ons.”

“What kind of budget are we talking?” Matt asked. “A show like this has to get a million and a half an episode, at least.”

There was a delay.

“You will get,” Stu said, “Two hundred thousand an episode.”

“What the F-ck?” Matt came back with. “What kind of crap do they expect me to create with just two-hundred k?”

“Don’t worry,” Stu said, “its ABC, and Paramount, quality is hardly job one. Just punch your time-clock, and make the show. If you do good, it will no doubt lead to better deals down the line. And, Matt, it isn’t as if you have anything else to do.”

Matt thought for a moment.

“Alright,” Matt said, “I’ll do it.”

Matt closed his phone and chugged down the can of beer. He burped, and then he threw the can at the trashcan. For the second time the can made it! It was a sign from God, Matt thought. He would make this cheap Star Trek show, and he would make it work.
--

The story made the network entertainment news shows; Star Trek was alive again! The internet message boards were alive again. The most famous of the Trek boards, TREKBBS, made the following proclamation; This show will suck.

They were right…kind of.


Continued…..

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK;
Inside Out
“Ian”



Matt was at home, and was on the computer. Outside his front window the sounds of the ocean waves could be heard in the distance.

It wasn’t everyday that a TV-producer scoured the internet for aspiring writers. But Matt Winston knew it could be done. He had taken some time in the past few days to watch old reruns of Star Trek. He found a third of it crappy, a third of it good, and the rest somewhere in the middle. But the one thing he really liked the most were the costume designs for the women. He would be sure to remember that when it came time to hire the wardrobe department.

But writing scifi stories, that attracted ratings, would be the most difficult part of this show. Oh, there were scifi shows on TV. But, if they were lucky, 2 million people watched. That would not cut it on Network TV.

Conversely, Matt had no idea what good scifi or bad scifi was. He didn’t care for science fiction movies. They were usually too smart for him, and were aimed at people he would never associate with anyway; comic-book fans and scientists at JPL. But, Matt had a job now, and finding a writer to write his Star Trek show was his number one priority.

He found a message board, on the internet, where fans actually wrote their own stories. He found most of them, just as the science fiction movies he had seen, way over his head. They were far too deep for TV. Then he happened upon a fanfic story about a crew of dogs, mutts actually, that were sent into space with a Starfleet officer, and his sexually overactive android wife. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but it seemed the writers had a true grip on what deep science fiction was about. He sent the writer a private message. One thing led to another, and Matt was now waiting for a phone call from this genius writer. The writer’s screen name on the site was; LocutusIV5.

The phone rang, but instead of the writer, it was Stu Emerson, Matt’s agent.

“So, have you talked to the writer yet?” Stu asked, as he drove in his BWM through the streets of Hollywood.

“No, he’s calling any moment. I’ve been reading more of his stuff though,” Matt said. "Look, Stu, I am no expert in scifi, but this guy is incredible. In his story, the Dogs all have different emotions and one of them is, get this, the reincarnated soul of Norman Fell.” Matt said as he puffed on a cigarette. “Dude, you can’t bottle this kind of talent. The kid is amazing.”

Stu shook his head. To him it sounded like complete crap. But, he was just an agent, what did he know about making TV shows? Obviously Matt had the talent for picking good TV shows.

“Hey, he’s calling on the other line; let me get back to you.” Matt said.

--
Dallas Texas.

Ian Scott Morrison’s bedroom was his castle. Posters of various comic-book characters adorned his wall. Dirty clothes on the floor almost created an entire level on which he walked. Balls of paper, drawing of failed starship designs he had come up with, were littered around the room. And, at this moment, he was wearing his Gene Simmon’s Kiss shirt, given to him by his uncle, and a pair of white boxer-briefs. The room was very dark, even though it was in the afternoon. Three heavy coats of Aluminum tinfoil, on the outside of his window, helped to keep the room very dark even in the middle of the day.

Several XBOX360 game cases were tossed about the room, as were the games. Yeah, the room was messy, but who cared? It was his room. He would get around to cleaning it, as he usually did, on a bi-monthly schedule.

One of the things he did on the side was writing Star Trek fan-fic. And, three days earlier, he had received a private message from someone who had read, and had been very impressed with, his new story; Star Trek; Mutts and Wilma. Ian had written it just for fun, in the monthly writers challenge forum. It didn’t even win, but he continued to write it because it was just too dumb and fun to do.

Whoever this person was, who was interested in his writing, claimed to be a TV producer. They exchanged a few more Emails, and finally the guy gave Ian his number. Ian figured it was probably a hoax, some nut job. But when the guy told him the shows he had produced, including Moppers, Ian had to play the hunch out. He had loved Moppers, and felt it was one of the most under appreciated TV shows of all time.

Suddenly there was a pounding on Ian’s door.

“Hey; Ian,” Ian’s step-father, Paul, yelled. “Clean that God Damn room of yours!”

Ian flipped off his step-father, from behind the door.

“I know you’re flipping me off, you little fucker,” Paul added. “If that room isn’t clean by the time I get back from the swap-meet with your mom, I’m going to clean it. And trust me.” Paul added with a laugh, “You won’t like that; at all.”

Seconds later Ian heard the front door to the house close. It wasn’t really a house, but a three room trailer in a pathetic, shabby looking trailer park on the outskirts of Dallas. He looked at the clock; it was time to call the so called TV producer; Matt Winston.


--continued

 

[CeJay]

You certainly come up with the most original scenarios to write about. You can't bottle that kind of talent ... just don't expect Hollywood to come calling.

Your characters seem to be stereotypes so far but it's tongue-in-cheek humor makes this a lot of fun to read. Reminds me a bit of Galaxy Quest. Just whackier.

I'm interested to see where you take this. And how much fun you will poke at Hollywood professionals and fan-fic writers in the process.

 

[RobertScorpio]

You certainly come up with the most original scenarios to write about. You can't bottle that kind of talent ... just don't expect Hollywood to come calling.

Your characters seem to be stereotypes so far but it's tongue-in-cheek humor makes this a lot of fun to read. Reminds me a bit of Galaxy Quest. Just whackier.

I'm interested to see where you take this. And how much fun you will poke at Hollywood professionals and fan-fic writers in the process.

Thanks Cejay. The "STAR TREK" we all know and love, behind the scenes, has so much material to poke fun at, it will be fun to do just that. A friend of mine works in the TV industry, and the stories he tells about the process are really mind blowing. The cast formula thing was something he told me about some time back about a memo he read to a producer, reminding the producer to have minorites in the cast, even if they were just stereotypical versions.

MOPPERS could easily have come out in the 70s-80s and might have been a hit!!!...LOL...you never know. Luckily TV seems to be going away from that, but to Matt? It still is hit tv!!


Rob

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK;
Inside Out.
“Phone Call”

This is the actual transcript taken while Matt and Ian spoke for the first time. Matt had it created, incase there were contract problems down the line.




Matt: Hello, this is Matt Winston.

Ian: Hello mister Winston, my name is Ian Morrison, and I am the writer of Star Trek; Mutts and Wilma.

Matt: Thank you for calling Ian. I just read the part in your story about the dog Rufus chewing on a bone with those little robot things on it..”

Ian: Nannites.

Matt: Whatever, but it was amazing. I liked how those things gave the dog the ability to read human minds. That is pretty deep stuff, Ian. You are way ahead of your time. Are you a child prodigy or something like that?

Ian thought about the episode of The Jetsons when Astro did pretty much the same thing, which was where he pretty much got the idea.

Ian: No, I’m just ordinary. But I am not sure I could really write for a TV show, I’ve never done it before.

Matt: Ian, baby, don’t worry about that. You’ll be the head writer on the show. All you got to do is come up with an idea, or use mine, I have a ton of them, and then the writers below you do all the work. James Brooks and Ronald D Moore came up with this way of writing for TV; and it works.

Ian: Do you have an idea already, or do you want to do Mutts and Wilma?

Matt: Well, Ian, I spent about three days watching all of Star Trek, and I think pretty much got the whole thing down pat. It all comes down to boobs. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mr. Roddenberry was doing some great stuff. But right now, people don’t want to think when they watch TV. They just want big boobs and guys with nice hair. Throw in some action, and message here and there, and that’s it.

Ian; But aren’t you aiming this at scifi fans? They will expect more than just big boobs and guys with nice hair.

Matt (laughing): Have you actually seen the later Star Treks? Trust me, big boobs and guys with nice hair IS Star Trek. Now listen up kid, I know how to produce a Top Ten Hit. Trust me on this; All we need are Big boobs and guys with nice hair; That’s the ticket.

Ian: I don’t know, Mister Winston. I mean, really, I’m still in the tenth grade…

Matt: Are you serious? You’re in the tenth grade and writing this kind of material?? You have a big career ahead of you. Now look, this whole TV deal is simple. Now, we only have so much money per episode to spend, at first, so we have to make our mark quickly to hook the viewers in.

Ian: So, what do you want me to do?

Matt: I’m going to tell you my basic opening of the show. Then you take it from there and write, oh, thirteen episodes. Since we have a rush order from ABC/Paramount, the pilot will get shot sight unseen. After we are in mid-production on the pilot then ABC, a Network in dire need of a hit, will go ahead and order the thirteen episodes. So, can you do it kid? Can you come up with thirteen episodes?

There was a pause.

Ian: What about school? I have a lot of studying to do. I’m not sure I will have the time to devote to this.

Matt: Do you have parents?

Ian: Yeah.

Matt: Shit, why couldn’t your have been an orphan or a runaway. Look, kid, does your mom work?

Ian: Yeah, she works at Walmart. She is the lead cashier there.

Matt: What about dad?

Ian: He’s an unemployed truck driver, and a complete asshole.

Matt: Does he like porn?

Ian: Yeah, he’s got a secret stash of DVDs in his room.

Matt: Doesn’t sound too secret to me. Anyway, give me your address and I’ll pay for three month’s worth of the Hustler Network. There’s no need to say anything to him, he’ll just notice its free, and won’t care what the hell you’re doing in your room.

Ian: What about my homework?

Matt: Do you have any goober friends?

Ian: I am a goober.

Matt: Do you have any friends who would like twenty-five thousand dollars to do your home work.

Ian gulped: Yeah.

Matt: Just hook up with them about this, and get their name. I’ll shoot out a check next week. Meanwhile, you start writing those scripts.

Ian: How much will I get paid? Does five hundred sound good?

Matt thought for a moment. Since the kid was no doubt the next great TV writer, he needed to be rewarded so that there would be no threat to his leaving.

Matt: No, five-hundred is a tad too high. Look, I could go with Four hundred, for the first year. If we get picked up again, and get a better budget, I’d say three times that.

Ian: Four hundred bucks? And yet my friend gets twenty-five thousand for doing my homework.

Matt laughed: You’re funny kid. Listen, Four-hundred thousand dollars is enough for a kid your age.

Ian gulped again: Do I need to sign a contract?

Matt: Hell no, Ian. Everything is done by electronic signature. Just go to the website I’m emailing you, and just follow the directions. Make sure you put in the routing number of your bank, and next week you’ll get your $80,000 signing bonus.

Ian: I don’t have a bank account yet; I’m only fifteen years old.

Matt: Have your parents open you an account. If they say no, just go in and get one. Some banks don’t even have age limits. Just find one; because once you start getting paid, no bank is going to care where they get your money. Banks are really only in the business of laundering drug money, so they can launder yours as well.

Ian: Okay. I’ll go do that tomorrow, and I’ll have the first script to you. Just check your email.

Matt: Great kid; I think we’re going to create a great science-fiction TV show.

There was a pause.

Ian: Umm, Mr. Winston; what is the basic story going to be about?

--continued…

Next time; A star is reborn; William Sergeant!

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK:
Inside Out
"William"


Matt Winston was lost in la-la land. He was in his new office on the Paramount lot, and was holding interviews for a new secretary. Susie Edmonds, the first of the twenty interviewees in the waiting room, came into his office, and Matt, as said earlier, was in la-la land. Why?

She had a rack that wouldn’t quit, and some junk in the back that he liked as well. She had dressed in away that accented her two large assets, and Matt had to stop himself, twice, from drooling.

“I can type too,” she said as she smacked her mouth on the gum inside mouth.

“Who cares,” Matt said, “you’re hired.”

“What about the other people who want to be interviewed? Shouldn’t you give them a chance? One of them just arrived from another country and has no job.” Susie said.

Matt looked at Susie’s job application.

“Oh Well,” Matt said, “according to this you’re twenty-one years old and haven’t worked a day in your life.”

“Honey,” Susie said, “do you think keeping a body as rocking as mine is no work? I mean look at me.” She said, motioning to her ample sized breasts. “These are real and take real time to keep maintained.”

“Oh,” Matt said, “I believe it. So, go out there and sit in the desk, and tell the others the position has been filled; you’re hired sweetie!”

“Oh, but mister Williams…”

“Winston,” Matt reminded her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a slight giggle, “We haven’t talked about what I’m going to be paid, or the dress code.”

Matt shook his head. “Just be here by 10am, and as for the dress code?” He said to her. “It gets very warm in these old studios, so I would suggest dressing very light. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“You know what mister Waltrup?”

“Winston,” he reminded her.

“You make me feel so swell.” She said with a slight giggle and a smile.

“I know the feeling, believe me; you make me feel swell too.” Matt said. He was swelling alright.

She left the office, and then Matt checked his email. He smiled at the sight of the email from Ian Morrison. It was the first story treatment for the pilot. Matt opened it and began to read. Upon finishing reading it, Matt knew they had a hit on their hands. He opened up his Hollywood Screenwriter program on his computer, cut and pasted Ian’s story into it. Then he did some revisions here and there, and an hour later, he had a hundred-page script for a two-hour pilot! And, in Matt’s mind, it had EMMY AWARD written all over it.

He gave it a title; Star Trek-The Mission: a script by Ian Morrison and Ethan Andrew Pedals. Ethan A. Pedals was Matt’s fake name that he had registered with the writer’s union. He wanted a name that sounded the most ‘gay’. Not that he was against Gays, several of his friends were gay in fact, and he had no problem with it. But many television reviewers were switch hitters, and Matt wanted to cover all the bases, and get the most exposure. And a name like Ethan Andrew Pedals would attract reviewers who might normally not watch a show produced by Matt “Juggs Apply” Winston; being that they usually featured women with big boobs, or midgets, or a combination of both.

--
Across Town; A uber-secretive office.

A man stared at the object before him. It was the latest, and greatest, hair-piece. It was the Mark XVI and it was made from actual hair removed from a baby’s bottom; meaning it was soft. And because babies had so little hair, it took nearly one-thousand babies to make one hair-piece, which is why it cost twenty-five thousand dollars. But price was no obstacle for William Sergeant; aka TV’s biggest star; even if only in his own mind.

“I’ll take it,” William said to the seller.

The exclusive toupee business was located in the heart of Bel’Air. In fact it was so secret, and so undercover, you could only come by invitation. William had been a customer ever since his second TV hit; K.T. Riker. It was a cop show that went a long way to cementing William Sergeant as a great actor; at least to his entourage. Either they thought he was great, or they were out on the street on their asses. Needless to say, the streets of Hollywood had many skid marks.

“Mr Sergeant,” the seller said, “since you are a preferred customer, I will take two hundred dollars off.”

William nodded. “Thank you very much.”

--

Two hours later William Sergeant was sitting in his very expensive home in West Hollywood. He found a Federal Express package in his kitchen, left there by the maid no doubt, and then he opened it. It was the proposed script to a new TV show. The part was being offered to him, and was his to accept or not. William poured himself a drink, sat down on his couch, and prepared to read the script.

Before reading, he looked over to the far wall, and at the large movie poster from a movie he made years earlier. On the poster it showed him with a gun, and sporting a very seductive look.

“You still go it,” he said to the picture of him on the wall. “And they still want you.”

He sipped on the drink, and then read the script.
--

An hour or so later, William closed the script. He was nearly shaking, having read the script. It was a new Star Trek show. And the moment William was finished reading the script he knew he had to have the role. It was the greatest writing, the second best scifi story he had ever read, the first being The Night of The Lepus, and William was quite sure it would change his life; forever!

Continued…

 

[RobertScorpio]

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK:
Inside Out
"Greg and Norma"



TWO MONTHS LATER


Matt Winston drove his Mazda Miata down a small alley way located in downtown Los Angeles. He didn’t usually like to drive in LA, due to the crime and violence, but today was a special day.

Production on the pilot of STAR TREK: THE MISSION was drawing near. One of the more important aspects of the show would be the so called “special effects.” And, on this day, Matt was heading to the house of Gregg Giles.

Greg had worked for John Dykstra back in the 70s on the set of Battlestar Galactica. Dykstra was providing most of the ‘space’ effects, using some of the techniques he had used on the Star Wars movie. Greg, along with other cheap high-school aged labor, was hired because he could build models. Greg had just graduated from High-School and was looking for a job. As soon as he was hired, Greg was put to work on adding detail to the Colonial Viper shooting model.

With Dykstra’s asking price way to high for Matt’s Star Trek production, Dykstra had put him into contact with Greg.

Matt parked his car outside the small apartment complex. As he got out of the car, he noticed a cop car, chasing a fleeing man, coming his way. He ran around to he other side of the car as the fleeing suspect ran by, followed closely by the cops. The fleeing man had apparently stolen a can of tuna from the 7/11 at the end of the alley, and was eating it as he ran.

“Drop the tuna now!” The voice of the police man said from the PA system of the cop car.

The other cop hung outside the passenger’s window and then fired his gun, striking the very obviously hungry man in the head, four times, and in the stomach two more times as the man twisted around from the shots to the head. LA cops sure hadn’t changed, Matt thought to himself.

He opened the door to the small lobby of the apartment complex, and then found the elevator. As he stepped into the elevator car, he could smell the funk of life inside of it. He could distinctively make out the scent of human pee, as well as vomit. The vomit had recently been ‘dumped’, as it was still clumped in the corner of the elevator. He had to hold his nose to stop himself from gagging.

Finally arriving on the fourth floor, Matt made his way towards Room 222. A teenager girl was sitting near the stairway door, smoking a cigarette. He looked down at her as he walked by, noticing a black eye on her face. She smiled at him.

“Is like always this hard?” She asked softly.

“Harder,” Matt said. “Just stay in school. It’s the only way people like you and me can escape the hells of life.”

She nodded, and then Matt continued on his way. Finally he arrived at Room 222 and knocked on the door.

The door opened and a man, in his forties, opened the door. His eyes were kind of off, as if in a daze, and he wore a common bath robe.

“Mr. Greg Giles?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, who the hell are you?” Giles asked. “If you’re Norma's pimp, I told you, I paid her in full. Now, what she did with the money I gave her, I don’t have a clue.”

Greg attempted to close the door but Matt stopped him.

“No, I’m not Norma's pimp,” Matt said, “I’m Matt Winston. We talked on the phone two days ago. You said you might be able to do some FX shots for my new show.”

Greg thought for a moment. His eyes even looked more dazed. It became obviously clear to Matt that Greg was blind. How would a blind man be able to do FX shots?

“Yes,” Greg said, “Come in.”

Greg opened the door and let Matt in. Matt surveyed the one room flat. It was a total mess. Three discarded bongs were on the floor, which was littered with newspapers and food crumbs. The smell of dirty laundry was in the air. Matt strolled over to the window, narrowly stepping on a penis-pump that was on the floor.

This is what as a $250,000 budget per episode got you, Matt thought to himself.

He looked out the window and saw the two cops from earlier, standing over the dead man who was, even in death, still grasping the tuna can. One of the cops opened up the trunk of the cop car, took a gun out, and then placed it into the dead man’s hand.

“California justice,” Matt said, “gotta love it.”

“Please excuse the mess,” Greg said as he used his blind man’s cane and made his way to the small kitchen. Mounds of dirty plates and pots and pans were stacked on all the counters. “Now, as I recall, you said you were making a TV show and needed an FX director. I’m your man,” Greg said as he reached up to the top of the refrigerator for a bottle of Captain Morgan. Though he was blind, Greg knew where the important things of life were. He then reached over to one of the dirty cups on the counter, poured himself a drink. “My maid is coming today,” Greg added.

“Well, yes, I talked to John Dykstra and…” Matt said before being interrupted by a knock on the door.

A very trashy, slutty looking woman, came in from the door. She walked right past Matt, and was obviously looking for something.

“Is that you Norma?” Greg asked. “Jesus Christ,” Greg yelled, “I paid your sorry ass last night. Get the hell out of my home, you bitch.”

Norma looked Greg’s way. “Hey, I’m not here for your fraking money. I just want my pump! Where is it?” Norma asked, with a very deep male voice.

Matt pointed at the ground near the window at the sex toy.

Norma smiled, “Thanks,” Norma said. “I found this in a dumpster over on Monroe Avenue two weeks ago.” Norma said. “Its cracked on one side, but it still works.”

As Norma headed to the door, Greg called out to him/her.

“What about tomorrow night?” Greg asked. “Are we still going to Pummels?”

Matt knew what Pummels was. Though Matt had never been there, it was a well known S & M joint that many Hollywood types had been rumored to visit now and then.

“Yeah,” Norma said, “I’ll see you there Greg.” Then Norma sized up Matt. “Bring your friend.” Norma added with a smile as the he/she left and closed the door.

Greg took another drink.

“Anyway,” Greg said, “this Apartment of mine has a garage below. I do my work down there and I got some used shit from various sets I have worked on, so yeah,” Greg said as he downed his cup of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum. “I’ll work for you. I think for about five grand I can do all your FX shots.”

That was actually a much smaller amount than Matt had been prepared to pay. Matt was looking at possibly two to three hundred thousand dollars. He thought about it for a moment. How good could the effects be with just a five-thousand dollar budget? Matt didn’t care. He would bill Paramount for two-hundred grand, give Greg ten thousand, and then pocket the rest.

“Five K; How about ten grand?” Matt asked, “Would that get me more bang for my buck?”

Suddenly, and with out warning, Greg turned toward the sink and vomited all over the dirty dishes. He gave Matt a thumbs-up sign as he did.

Greg reached out and found an old towel, and then wiped his mouth.

“Yeah,” Greg finally answered, “for ten grand I can do a lot more. Just send me some kind of idea as to what you want each episode, and I’ll get it done in two or three days, tops.”

“You should have our first shooting specs soon,” Matt said, as he prepared to leave.

“I won’t let you down,” Greg said as he followed Matt to the door.

“Well,” Matt said, “It was nice meeting you. I hope you and Norma have a good time tomorrow night at Pummels.”

“You wanna come?” Greg asked. “Dude, I know you producers are all switch hitters.”

“Actually, I have a other plans.” Matt said. “Maybe some other time.”

Without warning Greg reached out and grabbed Matt by the balls.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Greg said, with his eyes looking up at the ceiling.

Moments later Matt was back in his car. He passed by the cop car one last time. A news reporter had arrived, and pictures were being taken. He listened as the cops told the news reporter that they had to fire in self defense; that the homeless man had a gun.

Matt shook his head, got back on the main road, and headed back to his Paramount office.


To Be Continued…..

 

[CeJay]

This is getting so bizarre it's bordering on the surreal.

Then again I guess Hollywood (and LA) are a messed up kinda place anyway.

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK;
Inside Out
“Greg and the Igogs”



A large mansion; a small yellow car approaches the main house, and parks near the private garage.

Matt Winston parked his car, his yellow Miata, behind a black Lamborghini, which was parked along side the latest, and most gas guzzling, Hummer. There were several other cars parked in the private garage as well. It was quite evident that Brad Green, the President of Paramount's TV division, had done quite well for him self.

The large mansion Winston had come to was the home of Brad Green. Like many tv-studio heads, Brad got his start by being the son of a movie mogul. And, after a string of motion picture flops which he developed, Brad was demoted to the television division. Before arriving at the mansion, Stu, Matt’s agent, warned him about the strange things he might see while visiting Brad’s mansion; and to just keep quiet about them. Matt had no idea what Stu meant, but Stu said he soon would. But, as most things Hollywood, it was in the best interest of all if these things stayed hidden away from the leering public.

Matt walked up the path that led to the front door of the mansion, which had been previously owned by the legendary Rock Hudson.

A very tall elegant looking black man, clearly the butler of the mansion, opened the main door and let Matt in.

“Mr. Green will see you shortly,” the Butler said with a deep and slow baritone voice.

Back in the 70s, Matt Winston had come close to filming a Blaxpotation film version of Batman. He had even gone as far as getting William Marshall signed up to the project, but it fell through. But had it gone through, Matt thought to him self as the butler showed him into the main receiving area, this guy would have made the perfect Alfred.

“Can I call you Alfred?” Matt asked.

“You can call me Mister Dick Man,” the butler replied, “but I would rather you call me Lucifer.”

“Okay,” Matt said, feeling somewhat intimidated, “I will call you Mister Dick Man.”

“No,” Lucifer said, “I would be offended if you called me Mister Dick Man. I also want to add that I do not care for bigots,” Lucifer said, “So, please call me by my given name; Pandora.”

Matt just smiled, having no idea what just took place.

“Please wait here,” Pandora said, “Mr. Green will come down here to receive you.” Then Pandora held out his hand. In his massive black hand was a small plastic container that contained Listerine tongue depositories. “Your breath is very pungent,” Pandora said. “Mr. Green takes great offense to those who have pungent breath.”

Matt took the container from Pandora, opened it, then took one of the tiny slivers out and placed it on his tongue.

“Thank you Pandora,” Matt said, “I hope my breath is not as offensive as before.”

Pandora reached out, grabbed Matt by the neck, and drew him closer and sniffed his mouth. Then he let Matt go.

“It will suffice.” Pandora said.

“Pandora, how long will I have to wait?” Matt asked. “I have another appointment later on.”

Pandora shook his head. “I do not care to be referred to by that name,” Pandora said, “If you would be so inclined, please call me by my pet name; Mister Dick Man. And as for your question, Mr. Green will be down at his own discretion.” Mister Dick Man said.

The large man turned and left Matt alone in the receiving area which was right next to a spiraling stair case. Matt hoped he would not see the butler again, not sure as to which of the three names to refer to him as; Lucifer, Pandora or Mister Dick Man.

As Matt stood alone, he wondered what Green would be like. Then, finally, he heard foot steps come down the stairway. What he saw next was definitely one of those strange sights Stu must have been warning him about.

Three midgets came down the stairway. Two of them were white, one of them was black, and they were all bald men. They were naked, with the exception of strategically placed leaves over their genital area. The two white midgets had red stripes painted from their chin all the way down to their belly buttons. The black midget had a yellow stripe painted down the front of his body as well.

As they came down the stairs, they each held large pots. In the pots were black and white rose pedals that the three midgets were throwing over the shoulders. Brad Green walked down the stairs behind them. He wore a long black trench coat.

“Mister Winston,” Brad said, “Thank you for coming.”

Brad weighed, at best, one hundred and fifty pounds. Hanging over Brad’s left shoulder, and dangling as it did, was the trunk of an elephant, which Brad petted as though it were a cat.

The midgets stopped at the bottom of the stairway. Green stopped right behind them, and placed his hand on the head of one of the white midgets, and the other hand on the black midget.

“I love black and white,” Brad said with a transfixed smile. “If only our oceans were filled with a layer of black and white rose pedals then perhaps our world could throw off the Nemroms. They will destroy us, the Nemroms, and devour our young. It is only a matter of time.”

Matt just kept his thoughts to himself.

“So, did you like the script Mister Green?” Matt asked.

Matt had come at Brad’s insistence, after he had read the script. Apparently there were one or two issues Brad wanted to fix before giving final approval to start production in the weeks ahead.

Brad nodded. “I liked the script,” Brad said, “I liked it mostly because you wrote it with white paper and black ink.” Brad paused. “I love; I truly love black and white.” Brad said again, this time raising his left food behind himself. “It is so swell. You too must like black and white. You could have written your script on purple paper with green ink, but you didn’t. You went that extra effort to please me. You must be rewarded.” Brad said.

Brad removed his trench coat. Beneath his coat he wore knee length t-shirt with the image of Audra Lindley on it. He put his hands back on the heads of the two midgets.

“Please, place your hand on Toby 1 and Toby 2.” Brad said, motioning with his eyes at his own hands atop the midgets.

Matt did as Brad asked, and placed his hands on the heads of the two midgets.

“How does that feel?” Brad asked, with complete reverie in his voice.

Matt could barely stop himself from laughing; but it was his career that was at stake, and at this point, Matt would try anything.

“This is very powerful,” Matt said.

“I find that by stroking their heads like this,” Brad said as began to run his fingers across the two bald heads, “I can channel the black and white power and create my own reality. You can do this too, but only if you realize that the Nemroms are not our friends.”

Matt nodded, and went along with the conversation. “I hate the Nemroms already. God damn those Nemroms. How do we stop them sir?”

“That brings me to the script,” Brad said. “I want our starship captain to have these beliefs. I want at least three episodes of the first season to be about the struggle between the Nemroms and our saviors; The Igogs. He, our starship captain, should be one who partakes in the Igog faith, even if only secretly. Through him I want to warn the world about the Nemroms. I want the oceans of the future, when we see the Earth, to no longer have blue and green oceans, but black and white streams of rose pedals. It will be a signal to all, that the Igogs can be our protectors, our guides, in these uncertain times.”

At that moment, the three midgets got on their knees and started chanting in unison. They were chanting “IGOG IGOG IGOG IGOG”.

Matt nodded his head. “I will see to it that our main writer has three episodes written about the Igogs and the Nemroms. Do you have something he can read so as to know what to write about?”

As the midgets continued to chant IGOG, Brad walked past them and over to a desk. He opened it and took out a very old looking book. On the cover was a strange oil-painting of two unicorns knitting sweaters while eating bananas.

“This,” Brad said, “is the book of Igog. He will find all he needs to know.” He handed it to Matt. “I want you to leave this on the catering table during the filming of the show. I want it there as a beacon to all who are drawn to true salvation.”

Matt looked over at the midgets as they had now rolled over on their backs, and with their arms and legs waving about, continued to chant Igog.

“Thank you,” Matt said. “I will take this and guard this with my life.” Matt said.

Brad smiled, confident that his religion would soon spread across the world and save millions, if not billions.

“Then,” Brad finally said, “I will go ahead and green light a twenty-six season order, sight unseen. Just be sure to follow the Igog path.”

Brad clapped his two hands together, and then the midgets rolled back over, and then, in unison, they all stood up and began to walk up the stairway. Brad, putting his robe back on, followed them.

Matt waited, and after a few minutes, and no return of Lucifer/Pandora/Mister Dick Man, he helped himself out the door and back to his car. As he walked back to his car he heard strange sounds coming from the mansion, from the upper level. He didn’t even want to guess what the sounds were, so he got into his car and drove away; laughing as he did.


Continued….

 

[CeJay]

Laughing, really? If that was my boss I would be scared senseless.

Man this stuff is whack. David Lynch comes to mind.

But fun. A lot of fun.

 

[RobertScorpio]

Laughing, really? If that was my boss I would be scared senseless.

Man this stuff is whack. David Lynch comes to mind.

But fun. A lot of fun.

The funny thing? I have a friend in the 'biz' who swears that he saw something as whack as this. I have altered what he saw, but at the core, this is what he told me he saw. Hollywood is a strange place....as we are finding out not only in this story, but in real life.

Rob

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK: Inside Out
Flowers and Men



Ian Morrison walked down the dirt path that led out of the trailer park he lived in, and to the school bus stop. Sally Landis, the girl he had had a crush on since the fifth grade, was waiting at he bus stop already.

“Hi,” Ian said to her.

She barely looked his way. She lived further down the road, on a ranch of twenty five acres. Her family was one of the more well to do families. Although she was snobby, it didn’t change the way he had felt about her.

“You know I can’t talk to you, Ian.” Sally said. “You live in the trailer park so that means you will most likely grow up and be a loser. So my mother told me to never talk to anyone who lived there. I know it sounds cruel, but life is like that. The better you accept this fact, the more you will accept your place in life.”

“Then who can you talk to?” Ian asked, sheepishly.

“The high-school quarterback,” Sally said. “That is my lot in life, or so my mother told me, to hook the quarterback.”

“That is such bullshit,” Ian said. “You should be able to date anyone you want to date.”

“And end up living in a trailer park like you?” Sally said with a laugh. “My mom and dad only want the best for their daughter. And, unfortunately, for you, that means not talking to or dating boys who live in trailer parks.”

And yet, after hearing her crazy comments, Ian still had a crush on her. They stood next to each other for the next ten minutes, not speaking a word to each other. Finally the bus arrived, and they got on. Ian sat alone, and Sally strode to the back of the bus where Walt Willis sat. Walt was the quarterback of the high-school team. The moment Sally sat next to Walt; the quarterback’s hands disappeared up her skirt, going for a long pass. Ian shook his head in disgust and then looked out the window. Their relationship, Ian’s and Sally’s, was like that of Forest Gump and Jenny, or so Ian thought. Perhaps decades from now he would get a son out of it too.

As the bust made its way down the dir road, and once he was sure no one was watching, he took out his wallet and looked inside of it. There were fifty, five-hundred dollar bills inside his wallet. Apparently Sally’s ‘trailer park’ equation didn’t hold true all the time. Being a TV writer was starting to pay off. In fact, after school he would head to Best Buy and buy himself an XBOX360, and eight games he had always had his eyes on.

--

But it was later that night that Ian was set to have the most fun. His mother and step-dad were on their way to visit family, leaving Ian home alone. This was his life; home alone on the weekends while his mom, and ‘new’ dad, were out having fun. He had really hated his life, but all that was changing this weekend. Ian had planned a night of fun for himself, and his best friend Zack. And, promptly at 6pm, after his parents had been gone for about an hour, a Hummer stretch limo pulled up outside the house. On this night, Ian and Zack, were going to go clubbing. Having a wad of 100s afforded Ian the opportunity to live it up. And since Zack was his best friend, Zack would be living it up too.

--
Three hours later Ian and Zack were both in sheer heaven. After slipping a bouncer three hundred bucks, Ian and Zack found themselves in a VIP lounge at a stripper club in downtown Dallas. Two naked women were bending over and giving Zack and Ian full view of their naked rears. And then, on cue, both women leaned back and started to ground their nakedness on the two young boys and their laps. Being that the two young boys were virgins, they were unprepared for the consequence of having a very hot woman grinding on their laps. Needless to say, they had a very exciting time.

"Be my ho!" Ian screamed as he reached the top of the mountain.

Ian used his cell-phone and called the limo driver and had the driver go to the local Target and bring them both back a new pair of pants. Once they were changed, they headed off to the next club, and then the next club.

At 4:30am, each with a girl accompanying them, Ian and Zack arrived back at Ian’s. Ian and Silvia took dibs on the couch, while Zack and Bambi went to the room of Ian’s parents. The two young men were deflowered, and it only cost them roughly three thousand dollars to get the most smoking hot hookers money could buy.

--
Later that night, when Zack and the two hookers were sleeping, Ian turned on his computer. He had promised Matt, who he had not even met yet, that he would send the final story treatments on the final episodes of season one. Ian had also decided to tell his mom, the following day, and then his stepfather as well, what Ian was really doing with his time. They had to know. They had to know because Ian, and Zack, were going to go to Hollywood and meet Matt, and introduce themselves to the entire production crew of STAR TREK; The mission…


Continued….

 

[CeJay]

Uhm ... ok, I guess boys will be boys.

 

[RobertScorpio]

Uhm ... ok, I guess boys will be boys.

Yeah...just showing what Ian would do if suddenly given 80 grand, or more....who knows, maybe he'll in up like Brad (the Paramount guy) down the line....Money does change people, as we will see for those on the way up and those on the way down...

Rob

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK:
Inside Out
“WD-40 with a twist”


It was five in the morning. A short jog along the Malibu shoreline was one of the last things Matt Winston truly enjoyed doing in his life. It allowed him to stay healthy, and a chance to ogle the women who ran the beach in their latex shorts or other sexy outfits.

Matt had never married, and now in his mid 50s, he was pretty sure he never would. In fact, just getting an erection at his age involved more and more planning, in fact; it required medicine. He remembered the recent conversation with his doctor.

--
A typical doctor’s office in downtown Hollywood.

Matt was holding a blue pill, in the shape of a penis, in between his fingers. Reminding him of the old Flinstone vitamins in the shape of Barney and Fred. It was the same strategy to get someone to take a pill.

“What will this do exactly Doc?” Matt asked.

Doctor Newman, a man in his late sixties, had been Matt’s doctor for nearly twenty years. He was a kindly old man with a Santa beard. Dr. Newman had removed Matt’s tonsils, years ago. When Matt separated his shoulder while skiing, Dr. Newman saw him through that. When a hooker put a two-sizes to small ring around Matt’s penis, and nearly amputated it off while having sex, a quick call to Dr. Newman, and a quick spray of WD40, saved Matt from losing the most important part of living; sex.

“What will the blue pill do?” Doctor Newman asked. “Trust me, use this little blue puppy and you be charged up and ready to please any woman for hours on end. You could pretend your having sex with Shelly Winters and Larry King at the same time, and you’re pecker will still be ready to go. Nothing will take the wind behind your sails away.”

“Actually,” Matt said, “I was quite fond of Shelly Winters. Many nights when I was a young man I dreamt of her. And when she passed on I switched to Kathy Bates, but it never had the same feel to it.”

“Well, what ever.” Dr. Newman said. “This is the pill, so just be sure you don’t have any reason to get out of bed for at least sixteen hours.”

Matt began salivate. “It will last that long?”

Newman his head. “Trust me,” The old man said with a leering smile, “It will.”

--
As Matt jogged along the beach he thought about the big day that was ahead of him. Today would be the first day of filming. The young kid, Ian, was due to arrive later in the day, and would come to the studio to see his words changed into film. Though, Matt thought, Ian wasn’t aware yet of the massive rewrite done to his story treatment, but soon the kid would learn that what finally makes into the script was hardly what was submitted by the writer.

The original pilot’s story concept was simple. The show, titled Star Trek: The Mission, introduced the star of the story; Captain Dirk Benton. He had recently been under investigation for violating his duty and breaking rules and regulations while trying to save his comrades from certain capture by the dreaded Klingons. Seeing their mistake, Starfleet puts Captain Dirk Benton in charge of a scout class vessel with a four man crew, including him self, as they explore an unexplored region of space.

That had been the original storyline. But with much input from others, chiefly William Sergeant and Brad Green, some aspects had changed.

Here were some of the main changes;

The Captain had indeed been demoted for being a rule breaker. And he did indeed command a small scout vessel with just a support crew of three. The main change was that William Sergeant would now play all four parts:

Captain Dirk Benton (played by William Sergeant); He was the captain of the Uss Explorer. He was brave, and had all the answers. He was the all-American (though Sergeant came from Australia) hero. And, thanks to his well known manhood (a specially made ‘cup’ that was sewn into the front area of William Sergeant’s pants) he was well known for bedding many women in his adventures. He was also a secret follower of the Zigog religion. And, because of that, he wore a lucky necklace with an IDEC emblem on it. The IDEC emblem was that of a rose, with one black pedal, and one white pedal, clasped together like hands, with a unicorn in the center, that seemingly wore a sweater. (This item would be sold on QVC once a month)

Soyak (played by William Sergeant): This character came from Vulcan, had green skin, and pointed ears. He was very smart and a know it all. He was also a vegetarian, and though it would never be a plot point, he was also gay. (This was done to make it seem as if this Star Trek show would finally have a gay character, but never really show anything ‘gay’ about the character. This strategy had worked before, and got the Gay and Lesbian groups off Paramount’s back, and no doubt, it would work again.)

Leon Denver (played by William Sergeant). He was the ship’s African-American engineer who knew how to keep the little ship together, sometimes even using rubber-bands, and snot; the original rubber cement.

And finally, M.Y.L.F.: (played by William Sergeant) Mylf was a proto-type female android, but unlike earlier models; the Mylf had the outward appearance of a woman in her late forties. (This was due to the fact that, like Leon, Soyak and Dirk Benton, the Mylf would also be portrayed by William Sergeant).

The main plot of the pilot was no longer about a battle with the Klingons, rather it was about the attempted abduction of two-thousand children from a Starfleet orphanage by the evil Hemroms who planned to eat the children, believing that by doing so they could absorb the inner power of the virginal children thus allowing the Hemroms to take over the universe.

Matt was real proud of what they had accomplished with the script. It was real deep and, Matt believed, would become an instant EMMY AWARD WINNING scifi classic. And finally, after his jog, Matt took a shower, got dressed, and headed for the Paramount lot, and to the success he was sure Star Trek would bring him.

Continued…

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK
Inside Out
Merciful and Demented



Captain Dirk Benton stood over the smashed body of a blue skin alien being, which resembled an octopus combined with a giraffe, and was roughly the size of a man. Benton’s shirt had earlier been torn across the front by one of the alien’s claws, and tickles of red blood could be seen coming from the captains wound.

--
Matt, along with Ian Morrison, Ian’s friend Zack, Brad Green and Susie Edmonds, who was Matt’s secretary, all watched from behind the camera man at the riveting acting performance of William Sergeant, as filming of the pilot was nearing a wrap.

The multi-talented actor, Jonathan Frakes, had directed the two-hour pilot over the past week with skill unmatched. He had gotten inside of William Sergeant’s head on how to pull the final scene off; and it had worked. Sergeant, at least in Matt’s humble opinion, had delivered his greatest performance ever. Matt even found it hard to contain his tears.

--
The Captain of the USS Explorer had lifted up a large boulder, and prepared to bash the frightening maul of the alien.

“No,” Benton yelled to unseen viewers of the battle between Benton and the alien. “I won’t kill this Hemrom, not now, not ever. It may have eaten seven hundred and twenty nine crippled children, after destroying the homeless shelter on Delta II. But who am I to past judgment on this soul? I am merely,” William paused, and held his hand out, palms up, “a man.”

Benton let the boulder drop, stood up and, yelling to the sky, delivered the final line of the pilot.

“I am not a GOD!!!!”

Benton’s voice echoed in the distance as the final wisps of daylight sank beyond the green-screened alien world horizon.

--

“And,” Frakes said as he held the scene for one more moment, “CUT!”

And with that, the filming of the pilot episode of Star Trek; The Mission was completed. In the weeks to come the special effects would be added in, and the music score, composed by the world famous Yani, would be added as well.

--

Later, that evening, a party was held at Brad Green’s mansion. Several dozen guests had come to the party, to celebrate the successful filming of the pilot. Ian Morrison, who was accompanied by Jennifer love Hewitt, mingled with the crowd, while his mom, and step dad Paul, were dancing with three male midgets, Toby 1-2-3, near the karaoke stage. Yani had showed up along with his good friend Ivan Lendle, the former tennis star.

Other stars had shown up as well, no doubt part of the Hollywood crowd that drifted from party to party on Friday nights. Simon Cowell, Lily Tomlin and Bonnie Tyler could be seen at one table, drinking it up with Mathew Fox and Henry Winkler.

William Sergeant had come to the get together with his now fourth wife, a beautiful Asian woman who only had one leg, but was still very beautiful. Her name was Swan Song. They sat at the bar and joked with the bartender, along with Mister Big Dick and his date, former Supreme Court Judge Ruth Ginsburg.

At another table, the blind FX director for the series, Greg Giles, and his transvestite guest, Norma, were joined by Zack Ephron, who was with a beautiful model, and next to them was the famous nobody guy who did all the info-commercials for products like the Swammo, and his guest, Alicia Keys.

It was a festive evening, as loud music was pumped in for all to enjoy. Several strippers, men and women, were dancing atop several tables that were scattered about the large living room. Barry Manilow was at the grand piano, getting ready to give the guests a private concert, and he was joined by fellow musicians Shaun Morgan, from the group Seether, and legendary spoken song celebrity William Shatner.

Meanwhile, upstairs in his private office, Brad Green, the co-Executive Producer of the new Star Trek series, and Matt Winston, the brain behind the entire project, shared a joint on a love seat in the room. Two midget women, one black, one white, each with pink stripes painted from their chins down to their belly buttons, and totally naked, were dancing to a hip-hop version of the legendary song MacArthur Park, as performed by the new hot rapper Runxy-Depot aka Joaquin Phoenix.

“You did real good Matt,” Brad said as he inhaled from the joint. “When Bill delivered that closing speech, I cried. He so much reminded me of the Zigog bishop who mentors me. I am quite sure this show will do wonders for my faith, and I have you to thank.”

“I told you we could do this,” Matt said as he too puffed on the joint, “and we already have twenty-six story treatments to go. This show is going to be big.”

“Matt,” Brad said, “I know you don’t like me pushing my religion on you, but we do allow men, such as your self, to marry as many women as they wish. Its just twenty-grand per marriage, that is all. I want you to consider joining. There is a nice crop of young girls, all who just turned eighteen, and they will be introduced right here, in my mansion, next week at an exclusive party. I want you to be there.”

“If you allow multiple partner marriages, then why haven’t you gotten married?” Matt asked as he blew the smoke out from his lungs.

“Toby 1 and Toby 2 have said yes,” Brad said, “but Toby 3 has said no. I would never want to break them up, especially since Toby 2 just got house broken. But Toby 3 has started to watch that bitch Oprah, and now he wants to start his own cooking school, and leave me.”

Matt feigned sadness. “I’m so sorry, Brad,” Matt said. “Is there anything I can do?”

Brad nodded yes. “Could you please talk to Toby 3?”

Matt nodded. “I will, but first Brad; has ABC given us a time-slot?”

“Yes,” Brad replied as he lit another joint, “they are giving us the 8pm slot, right before LOST. We couldn’t have asked for a better slot.”

Matt agreed. “How on Earth did you manage to get us such a cozy spot?”

“A friend of mine at ABC’s programming division,” Brad replied, “goes to the Igog Temple that I attend. Yesterday, in fact, I went to his house. As my three Tobys and his three Tobys were playing on the slides and swing-sets in the backyard, my friend read the script and instantly saw it as the classic it will be. He made calls, and got us that slot. We owe him a great deal for giving us this chance.”

“How fortunate for us,” Matt said.

They continued to smoke their joints, and as they did, they watched the two girl midgets dance to their heart’s content.

--
continued….

Next Time
William Sergeant demands more money and more screen time (even though he already plays four parts)

 

[CeJay]

I knew it. Hollywood is run by a bunch of Sciento.. uhm ..., I mean Igog worshiping weirdos. It does explain a lot.

 

[RobertScorpio]

STAR TREK
Inside-out
Birdie Darlopa


Matt Winston knocked on the door of a luxurious home located in the northern area of the San Fernando Valley. Many of the top celebrities had migrated from Bel’Air and Hollywood in the mid 90s, to the gated communities of San Fernando. William Sergeant, star of Matt Winton’s STAR TREK series was one of them. Matt could see the appeal, rolling foothills and a more relaxed atmosphere, but it just couldn’t compare with Malibu.

The door to William’s house opened, and a massive Chinese man stood there.

“Are you Glenda Marks?” the large man asked.

“Umm,” Matt said, “no. My name is Matt Winston and I was called by Mr. Sergeant to come to his home.”

“Please wait.”

The door was closed, leaving Matt alone on the porch. After a few quiet moments, the door opened again.

“Please come in, my name is Liato” The humungous man said.

Matt entered the beautiful house, and followed Liato. The winded their way through several rooms, which had pool tables, ping pong tables, and large screen TVs, and all kinds of fun stuff. William Sergeant spent his wealth on fun things, Matt concluded. Finally Liato led him to a large living room. Several heads of animals were hung on the walls, no doubt hunting conquests of William. An extra large L shaped couch dominated the room. Matt counted the cushions on the couch, places where people could seat, and came up with twenty-nine.

“That’s a pretty big couch,” Matt said to Liato.

“Please sit in cushion seventeen.” Liato said softy.

Matt counted from the first cushion, and when finding the seventeenth one, he went over and sat down. Laito, turned, and then walked out of the room.

It was strangely quiet, as Matt sat on the couch, looking at the collection of stuffed animal heads mounted on the wall. Matt never cared much for hunting, finding it to be barbaric. But, some did, and that was cool too.

Finally, William Sergeant entered the room, holding the script to the first regular episode, which was to start filming the next day.. Instead of the warm and bubbly man he was while at parties, and on the set, William, at home, was cold and distant. The actor sat at the far end of the couch, on cushion one.

“Good to see you Bill,” Matt said with a pleasant smile.

William looked over at Matt.

“Look,” William said, “I don’t like you, in fact, I don’t like anyone.” William said coldly. “Lets talk business,” William said as Liato stood at the entrance, “because if you continue to try and talk small talk, I will have my man servant there,” William said pointing at Liato, “stick his fist so far up your ass, it will hurt; badly!”

Matt’s warm smile vanished as he glanced over at Liato, who was smiling. Matt concluded that William was not joking.

“Okay,” Matt said kindly, “what would you like to talk about Bill?”

“Don’t you EVER call me Bill in my home; you will call be William, or I’ll kick the shit out of you.” William said with anger.

Matt gulped. “I am making a mental note right now,” Matt said, “William it is. Now, what is wrong with the script?”

“This script just will simply not do.” William said.

“We don’t start filming until tomorrow, William,” Matt said. “We have time for a few changes. What is wrong with it?”

Suddenly William lifted the script above his head and threw it on the ground.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong!” William yelled. “Dirk Benton is the most important character on this God Damn show, and he only has one-hundred and twenty lines! In fact, he has the same amount of lines as the fucking Vulcan, Soyak!”

Matt felt intimidated as William stared him down with fierce anger in his eyes.

“Umm,” Matt came back with, “this is an ensemble show, William. We are trying to spread the dialog out.”

William shook his head. “Don’t give me that shit” William came back with. “Maybe I didn’t make my point clear enough,” William countered. At that, he stood up, and kicked the script towards Matt. The script became unhinged and paper went every where. “But I, William Sergeant, I am the star of this show! Now, you get back in your car, call who ever you have to call, and you tell your writers to stop yanking my chain, or so help me God, I’ll send Liato to their homes and have him kill everyone of them with a God Damn axe!!!” William was now screaming. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Matt took a moment and thought to himself.

“But William,” Matt said, “if I’m not mistaken you play both Dirk Benton and Soyak.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” William came back with. “But right now I am William Sergeant protecting the integrity of Dirk Benton. If Dirk doesn’t get enough lines, then I, William Sergeant, playing Dirk, don’t get enough lines.”

“Okay,” Matt said, “but then that means William Sergeant who plays Soyak, or any of the other characters you play, does. So doesn’t that mean the same thing?”

Matt realized that it was probably not wise to ask that question.

William walked over to a set of golf clubs in the corner of the room, took out a 2-iron, and started to beat on the stuffed head of a lion, smashing it in as he did.

“I AM THE STAR!” William yelled. “I EXPECT THOSE WHO I WORK FOR TO UNDERSTAND WHAT I DEMAND AND TO GET IT DONE! DO…YOU….UNDERSTAND!!!!”

Then he threw the golf club over to the bag of golf-clubs.

“Paramount, or you,” William added, calmly, “will pay for that lion’s head.” He said with a smile. “Now, let me put it simply. Just change the dialog so that Dirk has more lines that Soyak. That is all I am asking for; can you do this?”

Matt nodded slowly, not wanting to see William fly off the handle again. “Yes William,” Matt said. “I’ll change it myself.”

William smiled. “Would you care for lunch? I’m making some chicken wings.”

“Umm,” Matt said, “that’s okay. I better get going and get started on that re-write.”

“I understand,” William said, his warm smile now gone.. “Liato will show you to the door. When I come to the set tomorrow, please make sure the re-write is done to my satisfaction.”

Matt left Williams house. He got into his yellow Miata, and headed for the Paramount lot, wiping the sweat off the brow of his head; somehow feeling lucky to be alive.


continued