Chapter 94: Professionals
As 1991 dawned, the tension in the air was unmistakable.
The U.S.-led coalition had completed its military buildup — war with Iraq was imminent.
In downtown Los Angeles, at Pershing Square, two groups stood locked in confrontation.
One side waved flags and chanted in support of military action, while the other — smaller but louder — carried signs protesting the coming war.
Leaning casually against his car, Aaron Anderson munched on a carrot.
Beside him, Jack Wells was devouring a cheeseburger, grease dripping down his fingers.
Jack squinted at him. "Aaron, what's with the rabbit diet? You trying to turn vegetarian or something?"
Aaron shot him a side glance. "Maybe if you'd paid attention in school, you'd know what vitamins are."
"I am eating vitamins," Jack said defensively, holding up his burger. "They're right here — protein, carbs, and happiness."
Aaron smirked, shaking his head as Jack took another huge bite and washed it down with Coke, belching loudly afterward.
Jack gestured toward the square. "Look at that. Hardly any anti-war people left. The pro-war crowd's got all the momentum."
Aaron finished his carrot and wiped his hands with a napkin. "That's PR for you. The Bush administration's been brilliant at shaping the narrative."
Jack nodded. "Well, can't say he hasn't earned it. Took Panama, secured the canal, backed Germany's reunification, and now the Soviets are collapsing. The U.S. is basically running the world."
Aaron chuckled. "Yeah, but Bush doesn't understand the economy. Last year wasn't exactly smooth sailing."
Jack stretched. "Whatever, man. Forget the war talk. The renovations at Angel Theater are done — you coming to check it out?"
Aaron smiled faintly. "Let's go."
---
A few months of work had transformed the Angel Theater into a modern, two-hall venue.
Each hall had 120 seats, a third of them designed as cozy couple seats — perfect for date-night audiences.
When Aaron and Jack arrived on Fountain Avenue in West Hollywood, Quentin Tarantino was already there, looking unshaven but energetic as ever.
The screening rooms now held prints of Boyz n the Hood, The Silence of the Lambs, and Ghost — all under Dawnlight's umbrella.
Aaron looked around approvingly.
"Jack, when you run the Boyz n the Hood preview tonight, make sure the critics and reporters get some gifts."
He paused, then added, "And bring in some regular audience members — the kind who know how to react. Big emotions. Smiles, gasps, applause — you get it."
If Angel Theater were bigger, he would've hosted the film's premiere here. Still, a private preview with press and critics would do just fine.
Jack nodded. "Already done. I found some people who've been on live TV before — they know how to perform reactions. Don't worry, they're professionals."
Aaron grinned. "Good. The film needs all the help it can get — buzz matters more than budgets."
---
Just then, Quentin Tarantino walked over with a messy stack of papers in hand.
"Aaron, I've got a script draft ready. Want to take a look?"
Aaron reached for it, but one glance at the scrawled handwriting and crossed-out words made him change his mind.
"Forget it. Just tell me the story."
Quentin grinned and dropped into the chair opposite him.
"Okay, so here's the idea — a group of criminals rob a jewelry store. Everything goes fine until the police show up. The survivors regroup at a warehouse afterward, bleeding and paranoid, trying to figure out which one of them is the snitch."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with energy.
"These guys don't even know each other — they've all been recruited by some mysterious mob boss. To keep things anonymous, he gives each of them a color for a name: Mr. White, Mr. Orange, Mr. Pink, and so on."
Aaron listened quietly, drumming his fingers on the table.
Quentin continued, animated. "But the job goes sideways. Two dead, one badly wounded, and the rest losing their minds. What follows is a mix of chaos, dark humor, and violence — a psychological standoff."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "So this is… the first draft?"
Quentin scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. It's rough. But I've got a lot of sharp, funny dialogue in there. I just need someone to help me polish it."
Aaron smiled faintly.
"Not bad, Quentin. Sounds like a small-budget film — contained setting, character-driven tension. It could work."
And deep down, he already knew — this "small" script would become a cult legend someday.
At this stage, Quentin Tarantino's script was barely more than a rough sketch — far from a finished screenplay.
Aaron sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Alright then. Go talk to Jessica and get a ten-thousand-dollar advance. Use it to finish your script first. Once it's complete, we'll talk about production."
"Deal," Quentin said immediately, grinning. "I've got a couple of friends who'll help me polish the dialogue. We'll get it done."
Jessica Parker — Dawnlight Films' sharp-tongued head of finance — was used to Aaron's impulsive generosity. She'd probably roll her eyes, but she'd pay up.
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Got a title yet?"
Quentin's grin widened. "Yeah — Reservoir Dogs."
Jack Wells frowned. "Reservoir what? What does that even mean?"
Quentin chuckled, shrugging. "It's kind of a mash-up. I love Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, and there's this old French film about a water reservoir. I just… combined the two."
Both Jack and Aaron exchanged blank looks.
Aaron eventually nodded. "Right… Reservoir Dogs. Sounds cool enough."
He clapped Quentin on the shoulder. "Just get the script finished first. We'll figure the rest out later."
For a mind like Quentin's, Aaron knew it was best not to interfere. Genius and madness often shared the same apartment.
---
That evening, in a dimly lit bar in West Hollywood, Aaron ran into Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix.
Their film My Own Private Idaho had just wrapped shooting in Portland.
"The filming went really well," Keanu said, sipping his drink. "We'll be doing some location shots in Italy next, then finish in Idaho."
In recent years, Keanu's goofy charisma in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure had earned him a growing fanbase — far more commercial appeal than River, whose roles tended to lean toward introspective, low-budget art films.
Aaron nodded, raising his glass to them. "My Own Private Idaho has serious artistic potential. Gus Van Sant's putting a lot into it. I doubt it'll be a quick shoot."
River smiled faintly, lighting a cigarette. "Yeah, we love the story. We want to give it everything we've got."
Aaron sniffed the air. His eyes narrowed slightly — that wasn't tobacco.
"I'm gonna hit the restroom," he muttered, shaking his head.
The moment he left, Keanu flicked his lighter, sparking his own joint. He took a long drag, eyes half-closed, the haze already softening his expression.
"River," he asked lazily, "why do you think Aaron doesn't touch this stuff?"
River exhaled a long, slow stream of smoke, his gaze distant. "Not sure. But I heard his father jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge two years ago."
Keanu's eyes flickered with surprise. River continued quietly, "If your own father killed himself because of drugs… wouldn't you hate everything connected to them?"
Keanu fell silent for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yeah. Makes sense."
He forced a weak smile. "By the way, have you talked to Depp lately?"
River shook his head. "No. He's been busy promoting Edward Scissorhands."
The film had just earned Johnny Depp a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy.
---
Meanwhile, Aaron splashed cold water on his face in the restroom sink, staring at his reflection.
He couldn't help but sigh.
Those two… if they ever went a week without weed, he'd probably have to call an ambulance.
He dried his hands, straightened his collar, and muttered, "Hollywood's full of talent — and ticking time bombs."
Then he pushed the door open and walked back into the noise and neon of the bar, ready to keep building his empire one unpredictable genius at a time.