A couple weeks ago, this smooth, up-and-coming director and his producer friends from some Libreville company you'd never heard of took you out for drinks, and smokes, and snorts, and...
"Hey, do you like Attack of the Mushroom People?"
Yeah, man. You - love - that movie.
Suretobeahitremakesequeladaptationmusicalstarringyoujustsignonthedottedlineproductionsetupfeescutofgrossbackendstandardclausconfidentiality . . .
Autograph, yeah. That's cool, man. Hey, ha ha, there's writing on this paper. Is this...
Formnoquibbleswholebandsignednewlabelfutureshinetotalcoolgladmeetbusinesssetfilmingnextmonthalsosignhere . . .
There you go, man. Anyone else want one? Least you can do!
Dancinggirlsceilingfanbzzztcapricornclustermeltsyntheticslimebzzzzzztgoofilmingnextmonthtrythistoo . . .
When you woke up from that wild bender, thinking you need to party with these cats more often, some lawyers rolled in and informed you that you'd signed on to star in a film about mushroom people who start a band. Worse, you'd invested a fairly substantial amount into the production! How was that even legal? Tying up all your money into this thing. You never even read the script!
And so it is, here, now, sitting in your trailer, reflecting on how you got to this place, wearing weird mushroom makeup that took several hours to apply, you quietly vow to never go out with people who do business on Elephant Street ever again.