Quentin stared intensely at Link, looking like he was gazing at an alien.
After a few seconds of silence, he abruptly reached out and snatched the script, moving so fast it was like he was afraid it would disappear into thin air.
He didn't sit down. Instead, he leaned against the counter and flipped open the first page.
After reading just two lines, Quentin raised an eyebrow, then kept reading.
Link just watched him, saying nothing. He leaned against a shelf, holding a VHS tape of A Better Tomorrow, his thumb tracing the edge of the plastic case.
This was his last shot.
If Quentin didn't get it, he was completely done.
When Quentin got to the part where Jules and Vincent are discussing hamburgers in the car, his lips initially curled, as if he found it absurd.
But the hint of a smile froze before it could fully form.
The eyes that usually had a nervous, jittery glint suddenly became sharp, and his breathing got heavy. He gripped the cleaning rag in his hand tightly, the veins popping out on the back of his hand.
"Damn... this kind of crap talk..." he muttered under his breath, his voice dry as sandpaper.
Then, he suddenly looked up, his voice cracking as he exploded:
"This is the f-ing stuff inside my head!"
His eyes were wide with shock, maybe even a little fear.
The shop was eerily quiet.
A few car horns sounded outside, muffled as if they were a world away.
All that could be heard was the shush of pages turning and the light tap of Link's fingers on the video case.
When Quentin turned to the page where Mia is injected with adrenaline, his hand trembled slightly.
The script slipped and fell to the floor with a thud.
He paused for two seconds, then bent down and picked it up. That trembling wasn't fear; it was more like reverence.
Ten minutes passed.
He had only read thirty pages.
But he turned each page excruciatingly slowly, as if chewing and absorbing every word. Even his breathing rose and fell with the text.
"Yes... yes... no... hmm, yes." He mumbled constantly, like a lunatic reciting a prayer.
Smack!
He slammed the script shut. The sound was sharp, practically vibrating the air.
Quentin looked up, his eyes a complicated mix of dozens of emotions.
"This... you didn't write this."
Link didn't say anything, just offered a slight, knowing smile.
"Then who do you think wrote it?"
"I don't know!" Quentin practically yelled, pacing back and forth, waving his hands wildly. "These lines, these scenes—every single word feels like it came out of my dreams! Jules, Vincent... I know them! They live in my head!"
He stopped abruptly, leaning on the counter, breathing heavily.
"Who the hell are you? Where did you get this script?"
Link walked over and gently tapped the cover with his finger. The two words glowed softly in the dim light: PULP FICTION.
"Quentin," he said, his tone calm but with an undeniable certainty, "who I am doesn't matter."
He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice:
"What matters is this: Nobody but you can direct this movie."
Quentin was stunned.
That familiar fervor sparked in his eyes again. His mouth twitched, as if he was being pushed by destiny itself.
"Its director..." he repeated softly, like an incantation.
"Yes! This is my movie! I can see every shot! F-k... Harvey Keitel as the cleaner, it's perfect!"
He was completely lost in his own imagination, rattling off actor names, camera angles, and music cues like a rapid-fire machine gun.
Link watched him quietly, the corner of his mouth turning up.
The fish had taken the bait.
Once Quentin's excitement had settled down, Link spoke up: "So, now we have a problem."
"What problem?" Quentin was still absorbed in the script.
"We have a god-tier script, a genius director, and a... writer," Link said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. "But we have no cash. Not a single dime."
Quentin's grin froze for two seconds, then he spat out a curse: "F-k."
He ran his fingers through his hair, pacing around like a cat on a hot tin roof.
"We can't sell it to a major studio; those clueless suits will turn it into some rom-com about hamburgers... Indie producers? Those broke guys will max out at twenty or thirty grand, and they'll take months to pay up."
"We can't wait months," Link said flatly. "I can't even wait until tomorrow."
Quentin looked up, seeing his own desperate situation reflected in Link's overly calm expression.
"Okay, okay..." He bit his knuckles, pacing back and forth. "We need a guy with vision, guts, and who can cut a check right now. Someone like that..."
Mid-sentence, he slapped his forehead, his eyes lighting up.
"Wait a minute!"
He darted behind the counter, rummaging through a pile of VHS tapes and magazines. "Some guy came in last week, a production assistant—Lawrence Bender! The jerk made some money shooting B-movies and he's looking for new directors! He talks about 'artistic spark,' but really he just wants to bet on the next big hit!"
He pulled a crumpled business card out of a notebook, excited as if he'd found buried treasure.
"He said he likes to have tea at the Directors' Coffee Shop on Sunset Boulevard in the afternoons because the chicks there 'get' movies. The guy's a narcissist, but he has money, and he's got a nose like a bloodhound for a hit."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Link took the card and glanced at the address. "That script needs to be in front of him before he clocks out today."
Quentin stared at Link for a few seconds, a huge grin spreading across his frantic face.
"I always thought I was the craziest guy in town, but you're way more nuts than I am."
"Only crazy people make great movies," Link said, shoving the script into his arms.
"You got that right!" Quentin grabbed his car keys. "I know the spot. Get in!"
They rushed toward the door.
"Hold up," Quentin pointed to the lock. "This thing is busted."
Link glanced back at the shaky door bolt, and without breaking stride, said: "Just leave it open."
Quentin paused, then burst into a huge laugh. "F-k, I love you! You're right!"
He casually hung the "CLOSED TODAY" sign on the doorknob and followed Link out.
Ding-a-ling!
The door swayed gently in the wind behind them.
The clock on the wall steadily ticked past three o'clock in the afternoon.
They had eighteen hours left until the landlord's final deadline.