As Quincy was playing in Event #3--$1,500 PLO--of the 2006 WSOP at the Rio, and as Alex Trebek, disguised as a washed-out Hells Angel, raced south towards Las Vegas with a car trunk full of shotguns, Natalia Pertman, a fictional character bearing no resemblance to any living movie starlet, approached the director of "Hit Me," the indie flick owned by Gleeman Productions Unlimited.
Pertman had a copy of the script in her hands. She slapped it down in front of the director, Harvey Wills, who had previously directed only dog food commercials. "I have problems with your edits," she said.
"They aren't my edits. I'm just the director," Harvey said.
"You're the director. That's important," she said.
"You can talk it over with the producer."
"Where's he?"
"Right there," Harvey said, pointing at Piotr, who was texting with one phone while talking into another phone.
"That kid is the producer?"
"That kid hired me."
"So one kid is bankrolling the movie, and another kid is exec producing it?"
The director shrugged. "Money is money."
As Natalia stalked over to Piotr, he quickly finished with both phones. "Ms. Pertman, a pleasure," he said.
"Your edits are shit," she said, tossing the script onto the felt.
Piotr smiled, unruffled. "Which edits in particular bother you?"
"Look at them," she said. "The original reads, 'Fiona: Hit me.' Now it reads, 'Fiona [seductively]: Hit me.'"
"What's wrong with you being seductive?"
"It's blackjack. I'm losing. I'm asking for a hit from a 70-year-old female blackjack dealer. What's seductive about any of that? Are you going to have me asking for her number next?"
"Would you do that?"
"Are you kidding?"
"Okay. It's out. Good eye. Anything else?"
"Lots. When I order a bloody mary, the script now says I'm topless."
"Yep. That part requires toplessness."
"I'm standing in the middle of a casino, ordering a bloody mary, and I'm topless?"
"Exactly."
"How did I suddenly get topless?"
"You took your top off."
"Why?"
Piotr shrugged. "The a/c is broken."
"Bullshit. Nothing in my contract states anything about being topless."
Piotr drummed his fingers on the felt. "What will it take?"
"Take?"
"To get you topless."
"I've never been topless on film before."
He met her angry stare with one of his own. "This is a business. How much per boob-second?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Let's break it down to boob-second. How much per boob-second?"
"Boob-second?"
"If you showed one boob for five seconds, that would be five boob-seconds. If you showed two boobs for ten seconds, that would be twenty boob-seconds. Two questions. One, how much do you need per boob-second? Two, how many boob-seconds will you agree to?"
She stared at him with her mouth open.
"For example," he continued, "let's say we agree to--oh, I don't know--fifty thousand bucks per boob-second. You go topless ten seconds. That's a quick million right there. Half a mill per boob."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"So what's your max?"
She took a breath and said, "My max is zero."
"Zero what?"
"Zero boob-seconds."
"How about 100k per boob-second."
"My max is zero boob-seconds."
"250k."
"Zero boob-seconds."
"Okay. This is going to be experimental, and I don't think it will work, but we'll try the scene with you clothed. It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays. Anything else?"
"Yeah, asshole, this part. The original says, '[Fiona steps onto elevator after losing all of her money.]' The edited version reads, '[Fiona steps onto elevator buck naked after losing all of her money.]'"
"Correct."
"What am I doing buck naked?"
"It's a metaphorical thing about you losing your shirt at the blackjack table. It's all very philosophical. Because your max offer is zero boob-seconds, we'll have to shoot you from behind. Have we negotiated an ass-second rate yet?"
"My max is zero ass-seconds."
Piotr opened his hands. "How are we supposed to shoot you buck naked if we aren't allowed any ass-seconds or boob-seconds?"
"You aren't going to shoot me buck naked!"
"Okay, okay. No nudity. It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays. Anything else?"
She grabbed the script and flipped through the pages. "I won't kiss my tits for luck." She turned a page. "I won't massage my ass to relieve stress." Another page. "And I won't dry hump the wall in my sleep while having hot sex dreams."
"What if your tits are clothed? Will you kiss them then?"
"No."
"Same thing for your ass?"
"Same."
"About the sex dream, everything in the movie leads up to that moment. We had a really good song chosen, Milli from Milli Vanilli would've licensed it to us for pennies, Vanilli committed suicide, of course, but this new song by Milli would've started his comeback, it would've been just perfect--"
"No sex dreams!"
Piotr nodded slowly. "Anything else?"
"I'm going to ignore all of the edits."
"Deal."
She stalked off. Piotr texted Quincy, She hated your edits. No to all of them.
After receiving the text, Quincy reraised with 6 3 offsuit, then busted out after five-betting all-in preflop against pocket aces. He hurried back to his hotel room, excited by a new idea for a fresh batch of edits. Time for Plan B.
Pertman had a copy of the script in her hands. She slapped it down in front of the director, Harvey Wills, who had previously directed only dog food commercials. "I have problems with your edits," she said.
"They aren't my edits. I'm just the director," Harvey said.
"You're the director. That's important," she said.
"You can talk it over with the producer."
"Where's he?"
"Right there," Harvey said, pointing at Piotr, who was texting with one phone while talking into another phone.
"That kid is the producer?"
"That kid hired me."
"So one kid is bankrolling the movie, and another kid is exec producing it?"
The director shrugged. "Money is money."
As Natalia stalked over to Piotr, he quickly finished with both phones. "Ms. Pertman, a pleasure," he said.
"Your edits are shit," she said, tossing the script onto the felt.
Piotr smiled, unruffled. "Which edits in particular bother you?"
"Look at them," she said. "The original reads, 'Fiona: Hit me.' Now it reads, 'Fiona [seductively]: Hit me.'"
"What's wrong with you being seductive?"
"It's blackjack. I'm losing. I'm asking for a hit from a 70-year-old female blackjack dealer. What's seductive about any of that? Are you going to have me asking for her number next?"
"Would you do that?"
"Are you kidding?"
"Okay. It's out. Good eye. Anything else?"
"Lots. When I order a bloody mary, the script now says I'm topless."
"Yep. That part requires toplessness."
"I'm standing in the middle of a casino, ordering a bloody mary, and I'm topless?"
"Exactly."
"How did I suddenly get topless?"
"You took your top off."
"Why?"
Piotr shrugged. "The a/c is broken."
"Bullshit. Nothing in my contract states anything about being topless."
Piotr drummed his fingers on the felt. "What will it take?"
"Take?"
"To get you topless."
"I've never been topless on film before."
He met her angry stare with one of his own. "This is a business. How much per boob-second?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Let's break it down to boob-second. How much per boob-second?"
"Boob-second?"
"If you showed one boob for five seconds, that would be five boob-seconds. If you showed two boobs for ten seconds, that would be twenty boob-seconds. Two questions. One, how much do you need per boob-second? Two, how many boob-seconds will you agree to?"
She stared at him with her mouth open.
"For example," he continued, "let's say we agree to--oh, I don't know--fifty thousand bucks per boob-second. You go topless ten seconds. That's a quick million right there. Half a mill per boob."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"So what's your max?"
She took a breath and said, "My max is zero."
"Zero what?"
"Zero boob-seconds."
"How about 100k per boob-second."
"My max is zero boob-seconds."
"250k."
"Zero boob-seconds."
"Okay. This is going to be experimental, and I don't think it will work, but we'll try the scene with you clothed. It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays. Anything else?"
"Yeah, asshole, this part. The original says, '[Fiona steps onto elevator after losing all of her money.]' The edited version reads, '[Fiona steps onto elevator buck naked after losing all of her money.]'"
"Correct."
"What am I doing buck naked?"
"It's a metaphorical thing about you losing your shirt at the blackjack table. It's all very philosophical. Because your max offer is zero boob-seconds, we'll have to shoot you from behind. Have we negotiated an ass-second rate yet?"
"My max is zero ass-seconds."
Piotr opened his hands. "How are we supposed to shoot you buck naked if we aren't allowed any ass-seconds or boob-seconds?"
"You aren't going to shoot me buck naked!"
"Okay, okay. No nudity. It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays. Anything else?"
She grabbed the script and flipped through the pages. "I won't kiss my tits for luck." She turned a page. "I won't massage my ass to relieve stress." Another page. "And I won't dry hump the wall in my sleep while having hot sex dreams."
"What if your tits are clothed? Will you kiss them then?"
"No."
"Same thing for your ass?"
"Same."
"About the sex dream, everything in the movie leads up to that moment. We had a really good song chosen, Milli from Milli Vanilli would've licensed it to us for pennies, Vanilli committed suicide, of course, but this new song by Milli would've started his comeback, it would've been just perfect--"
"No sex dreams!"
Piotr nodded slowly. "Anything else?"
"I'm going to ignore all of the edits."
"Deal."
She stalked off. Piotr texted Quincy, She hated your edits. No to all of them.
After receiving the text, Quincy reraised with 6 3 offsuit, then busted out after five-betting all-in preflop against pocket aces. He hurried back to his hotel room, excited by a new idea for a fresh batch of edits. Time for Plan B.
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