“We need a five point one rating in metered markets, not a snowball’s chance in hell. Let alone an untested format from a hillbilly girl who I’d pay serious money for to see in a Girls Gone Wild video but who has fuck-all experience in the TV game,” the network president told her, adding “Seriously, who did you fuck to even get this far?”
She had poured her all into the presentation, which was – to her – the culmination of a meteoric rise in the television business. Three months ago she was still an Alabama yokel. Now she was in the same room as the fifth richest American on the West Coast. She was not going to let him kick her all the way back to Alabama in three all too easy put-downs.
“Who I fucked? You really wanna know? Billy Driscoll at KCRW, in the alley behind the station. His first time, he told me afterwards, not that I hadn’t already noticed. Then I crossed the state line to Tennessee. Robin Walcott: he was a kinky one. Dripping candles, handcuffs, whips, the lot. And before you know it, I’m in New York fucking City, where suddenly everything goes very fast indeed. In a week’s time I’d fucked my way from the Bronx all the way up to a Central Park West loft with silk sheets and an Ann Geddes wedding photo turned towards the wall. That was Stephen Vanderberk. You know, the veep sitting to your right as we speak.”
“Girl,” the network president, flummoxed, finally said, shaking his head, “you have much to learn about this business. Fucking a veep won’t get your show produced. Really.”
She realised that now, back at KCRW, working on another spec script.
Next time, nothing but the network president himself would do.
Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.