ME: Ed has informed me that Charlie Sheen is causing tension.
MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?
ED: No.
ME: Ed told me that Charlie Sheen still has maximum points associated with the original Wall Street, which entitles him to an equal 33.3% procurement of all future properties, including a Wall Street 2 remake. Ed told me that if Charlie is not included in Wall Street 2, he will use his high-powered Beverly Hills attorneys to stand in the way of Wall Street 2, which may or may not include shutting the film project down.
MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?
ED: No.
ME: Ed told me that Charlie Sheen, and possibly his father--who also, as you know, had legal entitlement and creative affiliation built into his contract with the original film--will use unscrupulous and indirect means to destroy everyone in this room if he is blocked from this project.
MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?
ED: No.
ME: Ed informed me on the ride over this morning that you have plans of blocking my involvement as well, even though I'm the person who has backed this film from its dismal inception, even after your horrifying turn in The In-Laws.
MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?
ED: Sort of. You know. The part about The In-Laws.
Michael stood and crossed to the open french doors of his suite. Even in late November, the Catalina breeze through the palm trees sounded like the apex of a summer dream. The screaming gulls were crying something that sounded like Kill. Kill. Kill. Michael stretched and touched the tan tops of his bare feet. Despite his age he was looking lean and casual in khakis, the cuffs rolled up to his mid-calves, and a white Forzieri button-down, untucked.
At that moment, I received a text from Taylor on my iPhone: "MICHAEL DOUGLAS HAS A 9MM." I glanced quickly over to Michael's matching khaki jacket, draped casually across the end of his bed, and saw a hint of gun metal beneath the right lapel. I looked from Michael's jacket to Michael's face, which was now pointed sternly at me.
MICHAEL: Let me tell you something, Dorren. I don't throw my toys that often, but I will not hesitate to overturn my toy box.
ME: Um. What does that even mean?
MICHAEL (ignoring): Some may contend that I haven't made a decent film since Traffic, but I don't give a fuck. Do I look like I give a fuck? (Here, Michael turns in a complete circle for affect) Do you see me giving a fuck? I spent my entire career getting to Wall Street, and I'll be goddamned if Charlie-Fucking-Two-and-a-Half-Men-Sheen stands in my way of WS2. So, yes, that means fuck you too.
ME: I have a binding contract through 20th Century Fox that says only the studio has control over any impending inclusion or dissolution of my involvement of Wall Street 2. So, you know...
Michael sighed, running a hand through his thick hair, turning his back on me.
MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?
ED: Yes.
MICHAEL: Get the fuck out of my room. And get the fuck off the island. Both of you.
Ed and I stood, straightened our suits, and crossed to the foyer of Michael's room. At the door, I turned back and looked at Michael, whose mostly grey-and-silver-flecked hair was looking bright white in the light from the hotel balcony; eerily like his father's.
ME: Hey Michael.
His back still turned, he looked from his feet up to the view from beyond the french doors, not dignifying me with an eye-to-eye.
ME: Michael Keaton deserves your name more than you do.
Michael made a move towards the jacket on his bed and Ed and I ran to the stair well.
On the boat ride back to L.A., I asked Ed Norton why he tried to fuck me over in the meeting today. His reply still has me puzzled...
ED: The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men's knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.
Across the water, from my shotgun view of Ed Norton's go-fast boat, Los Angeles bounced on the horizon.
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