Yeah, I sat with two – hey, coincidence – F-18, Top Gun, radical fire,
napalm dropping pilots in my movie theater watching the chopper attack
sequence on the beachhead to go surfing because they wanted to and those
people were in their way. They urge you to put down your sword and come
join the winners. In 22 years the only ‘winners’ I could locate in their
toothless warren were either driving a convertible van or living like
trolls under an abandoned bridge.
But … whatever. I agreed to do it. There’s just one deal point that Jim
Robinson – a wonderful man at Morgan Creek, a great company – need to work
out is they want me in it. If they do, it’s a smash. If they don’t, it’s a
turd that opens on a tugboat. Check it, Alex, I embarrassed him in front
of his children and the world by healing at a pace that his unevolved mind
can’t process. Okay … last I checked, Chaim, I’ve spent close to the last
decade, I don’t know, effortless and magically converting your tin cans
into pure gold.
And I was getting a tattoo during the death from above. And it’s the banner
from the death card that Kilgore is throwing on his victims. But like in
baseball, the scoreboard doesn’t lie. Never has. So what we all have is a
marriage of the heart … of the hearts. And the gratitude I get is this
charlatan chose not to do his job, which is to WRITE. Clearly, someone who
believes he is above the law. Well, you’ve been warned, dude. Bring it.