\ Thursday, February 22nd, 2007 /
\ 10:45 am est. - 7:45 am pst. / “Forgive me for being optimistic, but I don’t think this is such a bad thing” Bruce remarks, the only occupant of Vickers’ office seated other than Taylor, “now that we know what she wants, we’re able to think of counter offers.” Stood half the office’s length away with his arms crossed, Grant debates his manager’s proposal with an appalled expression. “What makes you think she wants a new deal? The old one was perfect for her” Grant retorts, the rest of the group, rounded out by Aiden and Vickers, coupled closer together than him. “Because this wasn’t our choice” the agent explains, his left arm resting along the back of his seat, his body turned in Grant’s direction, “but we know what she wants. There’s a chance we’ve got nothing to worry about as long as we give her something she likes just as much.” “Bruce, I’m begging you to tell me what’s more valuable than non-stop, twenty four-seven ass-kissing straight to the White House” Grant responds, his attempt at continuing the line of dialogue thwarted by his employer. “A stable, consistent platform- that’s what’s more valuable” Vickers interrupts, meeting Grant’s eyes when approached with their focus, “have you all forgotten that we’re still the news? It’s our job to cover these candidates.” “Kelsi didn’t just want us covering Giuliani, she wanted us to make him look good” Grant argues, slowly rejoining the group, “he’s the Republican front-runner, we’d cover him with or without her inclusion.” Swiping at the bow tie around his neck, the gesture doing little to shift it in any noticeable direction, Vickers steps around Aiden, closing the remainder of the divide between himself and his anchor. “We don’t necessarily need to cover them equally” Vickers replies, his hand resting on Grant’s left shoulder, “all Giuliani needs is the platform. Flash a few campaign rallies, throw on a few speeches and it’ll be like the network never even got involved.” “How do we pass that off to Kelsi?” Taylor inquires, crossing her right leg atop her left, “she still expects staff interviews, live coverage from the rallies, subtle favouritism- the works.” With a smirk, Vickers pulls away from Grant, answering the woman’s concerns as he pulls his work chair away from his desk. “We tell her the network doesn’t like the integration of interviews and weren’t willing to pay for it” Vickers replies, rolling the seat up to Taylor’s side. “Robin told you to drop the Giuliani promos, not Giuliani entirely” Vickers clarifies, almost able to fully hold back a chuckle, “I think she’d throw a fit if we didn’t mention him at all- though, it would be funny.” Though they remain reluctant to the proposition, Grant and Taylor pass each other a glance, their passing looks eventually including Aiden. “I don’t think Kelsi was expecting us to outright tell people to vote for Rudy” Vickers remarks, “we can still mostly give her what she wants.” Quiet, Taylor and Grant think to themselves, the floor opening for any other voice to speak. “When’s the next time you’re supposed to have one of his spokesmen on?” Bruce inquires, retrieving his sidekick from the pocket in his coat. “We’re running an interview with his political consultant on Tuesday, and we’ve got a mock interview on Monday” Taylor replies, her attention set upon Bruce, just the same as those she shares the room with, “why?” “Because you’re gonna tell that person that you’ve been forced to cancel” Bruce replies, his thumbs dancing across the keyboard on his phone, each individual button presenting a satisfying ‘pop’ sound, “say the network decided against the interview, decided to reschedule it to a time yet to be determined.” Sending off an email just as he leaves the chair, Bruce reclaims the suitcase he’d entered with, it’s case still strong enough to survive a gunshot. “I’m going to meet with Kelsi, inform her of the network’s ruling, and ask what she needs in return” Bruce replies, effortlessly returning the phone to his jacket pocket, “remember, we still have the extortion recording. I know Grant wants to make things right, but we have our ‘big red button’ just as she does. We can use it if we have to.” Quickly becoming the centre of the room’s attention, Grant crosses his arms, a displeased look taken within his facial muscles. “We use it if we need to” Grant replies, standing straight, lacking an eagerness to bend the decision he’s made, “it’s a last ditch resort only.” The discussion already lasting longer than he’d like, Bruce raises his hands in surrender, the briefcase in his left returning to his hip as he departs. “No one would blame you if you used it, Grant” Vickers remarks, drawing the man’s eyes away from the exiting manager, “we wouldn’t think less of you.” Equally appreciative and disheartened, Grant bows his head mutely, arms still folded atop each other as he follows Bruce’s lead, quietly excusing himself from the conversation. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Thursday, February 22nd, 2007 / \ 9:53 pm est. - 6:53 pm pst. / “Both primaries seem to be filled with a short headlining-list, and cap off with plenty of depth” Grant remarks, tapping the cap of his pen against the newsdesk’s glass top. “For the Republicans, Mayor Giuliani seems to lead Governor Romney, though the potential inclusion of Senator John McCain has the chance of shifting opinion” Taylor leads off, “and for the Democrats, Senator Hillary Clinton seems to lead Senators Biden and Edwards, though Senator Obama is keeping it close.” Watching his client’s broadcast on the television nearest his booth, Bruce sits patiently, his Thursday evening drawing to a close in the food court of his local mall. After a few minutes pass, the programme begins to reach its conclusion, tapping footsteps starting to approach from the mall’s entrance upon Grant’s closing remarks. “I really wish I didn’t hate him as much as I do” Kelsi murmurs, sitting her purse in one of the two vacant seats opposite Bruce, “he’s a fine newsman, but I just can’t get through his show without getting angry.” His hands already folded on the table, Bruce looks to Kelsi with squinted eyes, thoughts obviously floating through his head before they can be voiced aloud. “It’s ironic that you say that after choosing to team up with a literal rapist to blackmail him” Bruce replies, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I dropped him the moment I didn’t need him anymore, didn’t I?” Kelsi corrects, hanging her jacket over the back of her seat, “even if Grant owned up to his mistake, he still did the same thing as Howard.” “Grant’s penis has never entered anyone by force as far as I’m aware” Bruce counters, folding the napkin near the table’s edge, “and even if he was just as involved in, well, that incident, you still chose to conspire with Howard.” Her face straight, Kelsi’s eyes fall a few inches, Bruce more than happy to offer her a silent moment to reflect upon. “You’re right. I’ll own up to my wrongs” Kelsi replies, passing another glance at the television just before Grant and Taylor’s faces are replaced by the follow-up programme, “but it got me what I needed.” “So, in your eyes, the ends justify the means?” Bruce responds, his back hunched forward just slightly. “In this instance, yes” Kelsi answers, leaning in her chair with one leg tucked over the other, her left foot bouncing as it hangs mid-air, “I used Howard just as he used that lady, and I used Grant just as he used me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the least-guilty party here. It’s a win-win-win.” “You’re the least guilty party?” Bruce repeats, his genuine, open-minded expression twisting into one of doubt and curiosity. “Well you’ve got anchors scrambling to make a presidential candidate look good to keep a scandal under the rug, and what Howard did is already well-documented” Kelsi replies, “all I did was get even with someone that froze me out of a producer gig with CSN. If you took a partisan look at this, it’s hard to argue I’m not most in the right, no?” Occupying the woman’s assumed opposition, Bruce shakes his head, hands raising from the table to couple just beneath his chin. “No, I don’t see things that way. I don’t see this situation as anything other than simple” Bruce replies, answering calmly and without malice, “you’re either in the right or you’re in the wrong in my eyes. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all in the wrong- myself included.” “You don’t think any of this deserves context?” Kelsi quickly retorts, genuinely interested in the man’s stance, “you don’t think-” Interrupted before she can proceed, Kelsi closes her mouth, letting Bruce answer the question already raised. “I don’t think anything needs context. We all want something, and we all took very different journeys to get there” the manager replies, the buttons on the sleeves of his dress shirt undone, “we’re all in the wrong, some just more than others.” Looking at the man with a squint, Kelsi’s leg ceases its restless hop, the man’s answer settling in slowly. “What’d you call me down here for?” Kelsi inquires, the lights in one of the many eateries nearby powering off, ushering her to change topics before the night grows late. With a hush for a moment, Bruce’s head falls, the woman watching his posture change as the revelation is revealed. “The network wants us to scrap the weekly interviews” Bruce replies, earning a less-disappointed look from his guest than anticipated, “they don’t like the format and they’re not willing to pay for it.” Her bottom lip sitting between her top and bottom teeth, Kelsi’s eyes pull away, staring at empty corners of the court’s colourful, tiled walls. “I’m going to assume there’s more to this than just ‘the network doesn’t like it’” Kelsi replies, not needing long to digest the wrench in her plan, “you could’ve sent that in an email. There’s more to it if we’re meeting in person.” With a sigh, Bruce shares the woman’s glance toward the mall’s empty corridors, a second and third establishment turning out the lights for the evening. “We want to know you won’t go back on the deal-” the man replies, the change in the woman’s expression noticeable, though unable to be read effectively, “-that neither of us will have to use our failsafe.” The fourth establishment of eight to close shop for the night, Bruce and Kelsi sit alone, the food court having emptied nearly half an hour before the woman had arrived. “It doesn’t have to be” Kelsi replies, her prolonging of the conversation drawing Bruce’s ire, a response she revels in. Taking a lack of interest in the enticing of raised stakes, Kelsi’s intrigue relocates, a sudden thought dawning upon her mind. “Why not ask me himself?” Kelsi suddenly inquires, again using an unexpected twist in the dialogue to catch Bruce off guard. “I’m sorry?” the man responds, as of yet unsure over the woman’s query. “Grant. If he’s so concerned about this, why not come here personally?” Kelsi reiterates, the man’s fingers beginning to tap the table’s surface unintentionally, “why send the manager instead of getting his hands dirty?” Though he does well to maintain the composure of a man in control of the conversation, Bruce’s inadvertent mannerisms give away the worries he hides, the tapping fingers implying anxiety, his small facial twitches insisting uneasiness, both easily manipulated by his guest. Noticing Bruce’s hesitance to answer the question, Kelsi begins to concoct her own conclusion, airing it out and inspecting the man’s reaction to judge its validity. “You handle most of these things for him, don’t you?” Kelsi wonders aloud, the small, almost unnoticeable ease in the man’s neck muscles observed effortlessly, “it’s just the ‘default’ option, isn’t it? He’s got trouble and, before he can even get the ball rolling on a response, you swoop in and cover the damage.” “I’m his manager, of course I swoop in- it’s my fucking job!” Bruce responds, his hands having returned to the table. Shaking her head with a laugh, Kelsi turns away, almost insulted at the discovery. “I’m sorry if that’s insulting to you, but that’s the business we’re in” Bruce explains, reaching for his cell phone as it begins to buzz in his right pocket, the fifth establishment going dark at the court’s front, “do we have an understanding or not?” Watching Bruce return the phone to his hip as the sixth establishment darkens, Kelsi senses her power waning, Bruce’s preparation to leave allowing the dialogue’s end to be brought upon by his choice. “No, we don’t” Kelsi replies, her sudden refusal surprising Bruce, who’d already slid one arm through the sleeve of his jacket. “Why not?” Bruce replies, his calm demeanour having dissipated upon the agreement’s termination, the woman’s exit from her seat only furthering the confusion brought upon her answer. “I get that your job is what it is, but I’m not accepting Grant’s terms as long as they’re coming out of your mouth” Kelsi replies, getting close to Bruce as she looks him in the eye, her hand holding the second sleeve back from occupying his right arm. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Grant is going to meet with me in person, mano a mano, and he’ll tell me everything you just did himself” Kelsi warns, the seventh establishment dawning a dark, powerless display, “and if he doesn’t, I’m taking that recording to police the second he no-shows.” Guiding her hand to the sleeve already worn, Kelsi removes Bruce’s coat fully, the manager doing nothing to direct her otherwise. “Wave the extortion clip over my head all you want, I don’t mind” Kelsi confesses, watching the man’s jacket tumble to the ground as the eighth, and final, establishment goes black, “I’m sure the police would much rather strike a deal with me if it meant nailing Howard just as bad as he nailed that chick.” Her threat vocalised, Kelsi walks away, her business with the man settled in a way she’s satisfied with. The breakdown in their shared communication sapping the energy from him, Bruce stands in silence, hearing the doors close behind Kelsi’s exit, his jacket left collecting dirt on the floor as many of the food court’s lights power down, entrenching his table in darkness. | \ Friday, February 23rd, 2007 / \ 11:04 pm est. - 8:04 pm pst. / “I’ll wait outside” Vince remarks, throwing a bag over his shoulder as he advances toward the bureau’s exit, a pat on Shane’s back given as he pulls away. “I’ll meet you by the fountain” Shane responds, turning toward an office near the newsroom’s rear, both Taylor and Grant’s office lights still lit as he passes them. The ball on his index finger tapping against his intended door, Shane waits for the audible hum he frequently considers inaudible permission to enter. “You still at it?” Shane exclaims, entering Aiden’s office to find the man sitting behind a wall of stapled reports and three separate laptops. “I’ve got plans this weekend and don’t want to spend my days off slaving over next week’s stories” Aiden replies, a pair of cheaters worn over his face, a folded paper held before them. “We’ve lived together for two and a half years, Aiden” Shane replies, stood in the open doorway, “the last time you had plans on a weekend, Bush was in his first term.” “I definitely needed a change of pace, wouldn’t you say?” Aiden replies, no longer pulling his attention away from the articles in his hand before speaking, “it’s sort of refreshing, I guess.” Though having entered sceptical to the thought of his roommate having plans, Shane begins finding himself more convinced, unable to understand why, the gut-feeling that builds within him prompting a change in response. “What exactly are these plans you have?” Shane inquires, fully immersing himself in the man’s office before opting to make himself at home, the seat in front of Aiden’s desk occupied by him. “Carly and I are going to the Rangers-Blue Jackets game tomorrow” Aiden replies, passing a second-long glance to Shane amidst the pause in his reply, “then we’re going out to a bar to meet up with some of her friends, and then we’ll probably call it a night.” “You- you’re- you’re going out with Carly?” Shane repeats, almost incapable of mustering any words beyond that, “going out as in on a date?” With a laugh, Aiden flips his note with one hand whilst reaching for his drawer with the other, two sets of tickets tossed toward Shane’s side of the desk. “We’re going to the Izod Center to watch the Knicks play the Nets on Sunday-” Aiden replies, his shoulders shrugging, “-I’ve been told that’s more like torture, but you can call it a date if you want.” “I- I will! Of course I’m calling that a date!” Shane shouts, his eyes widened, unable to fully process his friend’s plans before he speaks, “you’re spending the weekend with Carly-fucking-Carpenter!” Not sharing anything close to the stupefaction Shane suffers from, Aiden holds his nearest article closer toward his roommate. “Did you know Canada let terrorism suspects be detained indefinitely?” Aiden wonders aloud, trying to change the subject as Shane rips the paper from his hand. “Will you drop the fucking Canada stuff!? You’re dating Carly Carpenter!” Shane shouts, tossing the paper across the room, his hands extended, “that’s like if I walked in here and told you I was going to dinner with Keira Knightley and then shoved a piece on toaster-strudels in your face!” “I like toaster-strudels, what’s the problem with that?” Aiden replies, his relaxed posture almost tired in a way, as if what Shane finds awe-inspiring is nothing of importance. “Toaster-strudels aren’t the main topic of discussion in that conversation, that’s the problem!” Shane exclaims, watching Aiden pull another article from a stack of many, “you’re going on a date- two dates!- with Carly Carpenter!” “Can you say that again?” Aiden requests, adjusting his glasses as the next report takes his eyes, “I don’t think the couple that own the laundromat four blocks down could hear you.” His loud tone subsiding, Shane goes quiet, his outstretched arms falling to his side, the man completely unable to comprehend his friend’s nonchalant reaction. “Why are you not leaping out of your seat over this?” Shane quietly wonders, Aiden’s eyes rolling as the man’s questions resume, “isn’t this one of the things you’ve been waiting years for?” Dropping his glasses into the same drawer he’d left the tickets in, Aiden entertains Shane’s inquiries, unable to focus on his work as long as the man is in his presence. “Shane, we’ve been friendly ever since I started working here. We’ve gotten to know each other more in the last year” Aiden responds, finding room between stacks of copy paper to rest his arms, “in a way, we’ve done the friend-equivalent of dating for a while now- I’m just more numb to it.” His eyes pressing closer together, Shane’s suspicion ascends, the expression made impossible for Aiden to not notice. “Okay then” Shane responds, giving the man a nod as he leaves his seat, retrieving the man’s Canadian report before preparing to leave. “You say ‘okay then’ as if I’m hiding something” Aiden retorts, something neither man refuses to refute. “Maybe you are” Shane playfully mocks, stepping through the man’s door before Aiden has the chance to respond. His head hung, Aiden lets the discourse end there, amused with where it’d left off enough to leave it be. “That’s because I am” Aiden murmurs beneath his breath, turning back to his work without a second thought, pretending the altercation had never occurred. | \ Saturday, February 24th, 2007 / \ 3:49 am est. - 12:49 am pst. / Awoken by the sound of a balled fist slamming against his penthouse’s front door, Vickers staggers out from his bedroom, not a moment of pause between each knock offered. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, give me a fucking minute!” Vickers exclaims, glasses lifted over his eyes, blue and white-striped pyjamas adorning his body. “Might I fucking help you!?” Vickers exclaims as his door opens, Robin’s small, suit-laden body pushing past him the moment the blockade between them swings open. “Why the hell is Grant’s agent having a sit down with Rudy Giuliani’s campaign staffers!?” Robin exclaims, the strap to a small purse hanging upon her right forearm. “Bruce is Grant’s manager, first off” Vickers responds, wiping the exhaustion from his face. “I don’t give a damn what the fuck he is!” Robin shouts, advancing toward Vickers’ kitchen and helping herself to his liquor cabinet, “the question stands!” Little choice left but to follow the woman through his spacious, view-friendly, New York suite, Vickers continues the discussion, offering answers to whichever questions are raised. “I wouldn’t have any idea- I’m not Grant’s babysitter, and I’m not his manager’s employer” Vickers responds, certain to maintain some sarcasm to his answers, “if I had to guess, they’re setting up a game of high-stakes checkers.” Rolling her eyes, Robin reaches for the nearest bottle of tequila, the cap unscrewed in as much time as it takes her to prepare a single shot glass. “Quit fucking around, Sam” Robin remarks, a half-glass of tequila poured just three seconds before it’s taken down Robin’s throat. “I told you to drop the Giuliani promos, and-” Robin recalls, her tone dropping once the alcohol is taken down. “We did. We took them down the same night you ordered us to!” Vickers interjects, his common, youthful enthusiasm slowly returning to the elderly body he’s trapped within. “Then why the fuck are my employees still in contact with his staffers!?” Robin exclaims, her finger raised as she interrupts Vickers’ reply, “and don’t tell me his agent isn’t my employee.” Bobbing his head from one side to another to mock the woman, Vickers replies, “manager” he corrects, leaving his unintended guest no room to rebuke his amendment, “and, for the second time, I’m not Grant’s babysitter- I wouldn’t know.” “Well maybe you should be!” Robin shouts, pouring herself another glass. “That’s not what I’m paid to do-” Vickers quickly responds, interrupted almost as quickly. “You’re paid to do whatever the fuck I want you to do!” Robin exclaims, finishing her thought before taking back her second shot, “as long as our names are on the same legal documents, I own your ass!” “That’s funny- my second wife said the same exact thing” the man grumbles, stubborn enough to use the woman’s pause for humour. “Grant is a grown man, and he was involved with Ms. Dolin long before he came onto our airwaves” Vickers hurriedly shouts, not wishing to leave the woman room to outmatch his voice, “whatever their conversations consist of is business that precedes LMC in all facets.” “Except, that’s not how it works when she’s involved with an ongoing presidential campaign!” Robin retorts, “do you know how bad it would look if we got caught potentially getting inside-information from Giuliani’s camp? It’d be a target on our backs and on his!” “That kind of shit’s been going on for years!” Vickers replies, his head shaking as he responds. “Sure, but not in the middle of a fucking food court!” Robin exclaims, pouring herself a third, and final, shot. “Robin, I’ll tell him to be careful, that you don’t want LMC caught up in all of this, and I’ll tell him it’d be safe to cut Ms. Dolin out of the picture” Vickers pleads, unsure of what else he could offer to satisfy the woman, “other than that, I don’t know what you expect me to do.” “I expect you to uphold the integrity of this company- both privately and publicly!” Robin remarks, throwing back her final shot before reclaiming her purse. “You hired this man when his reputation was already unstable, then he became America’s newsman, and now he’s a pain in my ass” Robin remarks, stepping close to Vickers before preparing to leave, “if he keeps stepping on my feet, I’ll cut this little dance short and make sure he never steps in front of a camera again.” Her shoulder pushing past Vickers, Robin exits the way she’d arrived, her balance as graceful as it was before the trio of shots. His kitchen bleeding light into the larger, night-shaded flat, Vickers waits for the sound of his front door slamming shut before turning out the lights. With a huff, Vickers returns to his bedroom, the adjacent bathroom door closing as he steps inside, “FUCK!” the man howls, slamming his fists against the counter in a moment of frustration, nothing more to add. == Tonight at 9 ==
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2024
Categories |