Chapter 486: The Most Deathly Thing in Hollywood

Emerging from the Metropolitan Theater, Ted felt an urge to express himself. When had he last experienced such exhilaration in an action movie? A moment's reflection brought forth the memory of Martin's "Wanted"!

"That movie didn't let the villain ramble at all. If Martin can take them down on horseback, there's no beating around the bush!" Ted remarked, marveling at Martin's clean and precise action scenes that struck at the core without any fuss.

Beside him, Makara seemed smitten, declaring, "Martin is so dashing; he's my new crush!"

The film had completely won her over.

Ted fervently agreed, "This sets the standard for action flicks, flesh-hitting punches, lethal moves, and precise gunshots! Those boasting action movies don't measure up, setting their protagonists as killers or agents with empty bluster. What defines a real killer or agent? No nonsense!"

During the ride away from Lincoln Center for the Arts, Makara grabbed her iPhone, checking the latest "John Wick" updates online and giving the film a resounding 9 on IMDB.

"For Martin alone, this score is justified by how cool he is."

On the premiere night, "John Wick" fans flooded IMDB with rave reviews.

"Martin's the epitome of coolness in Hollywood!"

"In real life, Martin takes down Russian spies, kicks where it hurts, chokes, stabs eyes, and smashes heads with Coke bottles, all exactly mirrored in the movie!"

"Martin's skills are top-notch, especially as the protagonist Jonathan. It's like Martin lent him his strength. With his finesse and dashing suits, Martin brings back memories of the Coke God of War from the Santa Monica Pier!"

"When Jonathan used a Coke bottle to blow a Russian gang leader's head, everyone in the theater grinned knowingly."

"It was an explosion, Martin's allure in this film surpasses a nuclear blast!"

Returning to his Hilton Hotel suite, Martin encountered a hot topic online.

"The most lethal force in history: the dog that killed Jonathan's emotions!"

From this, various discussions erupted.

"One thing you don't mess with in Hollywood: Martin's dog!"

The creativity of movie buffs knew no bounds, and discussions flourished.

"The three untouchables in the film industry: Jason Statham's package, Liam Neeson's daughter, and Martin Davis' dog!"

Undoubtedly, the crew and Warner Bros. fueled the fire behind the scenes, vigorously promoting the film post-screening.

In the opulent Hilton Hotel suite, as Martin readied to visit Taylor's room, a knock interrupted.

Bruce checked and confirmed, "Taylor Swift."

"Let her in," Martin acknowledged.

Taylor entered carrying a guitar case, closing the door behind her. "I waited; why didn't you come?" she asked.

"Just got back, needed to freshen up," Martin explained.

Taylor settled on the sofa armrest, extracted an acoustic guitar, and inquired, "Which song first?"

Leaning against a pillar, Martin studied her and asked, "How many songs have you written for me?"

After exiting the Metropolitan Theater, Ted felt an urge to express himself. When was the last time an action movie thrilled him this much? He racked his brain and recalled it was Martin's "Wanted"!

"That movie silenced villains without a word. If Martin could take them down on horseback, it was pure dynamism!" Ted marveled at Martin's crisp, no-nonsense action scenes.

Beside him, Makara appeared enamored. "Martin's so captivating; he's my new heartthrob!"

The film had swept her off her feet entirely.

Ted fervently agreed, "This sets the action movie standard, meaty punches, lethal moves, and precise gunplay! Those boasting action flicks should learn from this; their protagonists as killers or agents with empty bluster lack the authenticity. A true killer or agent? No nonsense!"

On the premiere night, "John Wick" fans flooded IMDB with rave reviews.

"Martin's Hollywood's epitome of cool!"

"In real life, Martin takes down Russian spies, kicks where it counts, chokes, stabs, and smashes heads with Coke bottles—all a mirror of the movie!"

"Martin's skills are top-notch, especially as the protagonist Jonathan. It's like Martin lent him his strength. With his finesse and dashing suits, Martin evokes memories of the Coke God of War from the Santa Monica Pier!"

"When Jonathan used a Coke bottle to blow a Russian gang leader's head, everyone in the theater grinned knowingly."

"It was an explosion—Martin's allure in this film surpasses a nuclear blast!"

Returning to his Hilton Hotel suite, Martin encountered a viral topic online.

"The deadliest force in history: the dog that killed Jonathan!"

This sparked various discussions.

"Rule one in Hollywood: Don't mess with Martin's dog!"

The creativity of movie buffs knew no bounds, fueling discussions.

"The three untouchables in the film industry: Jason Statham's package, Liam Neeson's daughter, and Martin Davis' dog!"

Unquestionably, the crew and Warner Bros. stoked the fire behind the scenes, vigorously promoting the film post-screening.

In the opulent Hilton Hotel suite, Martin prepared to visit Taylor's room when a knock interrupted.

Bruce checked and confirmed, "Taylor Swift."

"Let her in," Martin acknowledged.

Taylor entered carrying a guitar case, closing the door behind her. "I waited; why didn't you come?" she asked.

"Just got back, needed to freshen up," Martin explained.

Taylor settled on the sofa armrest, extracted an acoustic guitar, and inquired, "Which song first?"

Leaning against a pillar, Martin studied her and asked, "How many songs have you written for me?"

"Two songs, one recently after a burst of inspiration in Los Angeles," Taylor disclosed, her eyes exuding allure as if beckoning Martin closer.

She continued, "The other song's merely exclamations; I hit a creative block and never wrote beyond the basics."

"Serious exclamations?" Martin pondered internally. Could it be divine or something?

Taylor looked helpless, "Lack of creative inspiration's a catastrophe for a singer-songwriter like me; I need your infusion of it to complete the second song."

"Sing the first song first; I need a feel to aid your inspiration," Martin responded.

"You want to feel it?" Taylor was initially surprised, then her eyes lit up, "I understand!"

Martin couldn't fathom her understanding.

Taylor stood, discarded her coat, and in under half a minute, transformed into a new persona.

Seated across from Martin, Taylor strummed the acoustic guitar, crooning, "You belong with me, devoted to my Martin."

As she sang, her legs gracefully moved, and her voice delivered a typical country-pop song.

"When you're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset, clinging to your words... She's in skirts, I'm in T-shirts; she's a cheerleader, I'm in the bleachers... you belong with me!"

Performing as if on stage, Taylor's movements synchronized with her singing.

Listening, Martin soaked in the song and scenery, quickly catching the vibe.

As Taylor concluded, Martin inquired, "Do I come off as a scumbag?"

Taylor chuckled, "Isn't that the point?"

Martin didn't defend himself, admitting, "It's a great song. It could top the Billboard."

Taylor steered back, "You don't want to be a scumbag; any solution?"

She abandoned her guitar, approached Martin, and draped an arm around his neck, "What about ending things with Elizabeth Olsen? Be mine."

Gently removing her hand, Martin stepped back, "Taylor, we agreed, it's about inspiring creativity, nothing more."

"Help me promote this song," Taylor persisted.

"No problem." Martin remained steadfast. "This was the song I invited you to compose."

Taylor went to the stereo, inserted a dance music CD, and turned it

In the realm of blockbuster movies, few stand as tall in acclaim as The Dark Knight.

Yet, criticism brewed in the industry. A film pundit, Richard Brody from The New Yorker, thrashed both "John Wick" and Martin, doling out a measly one-star rating to each out of a possible five.

His remarks weren't cordial.

"Martin Davis, fresh from bagging the Best Supporting Actor Oscar, is a letdown. The new film lacks any artistic pursuit. It's just a hollow, gray display of fighting and killing. His stardom's merely superficial."

However, paradoxically, the midnight screening of "John Wick" was jam-packed!

Chad, debuting as an independent director, fretted despite the buzz and market promise. Anxious, he sneaked into a small, inconspicuous theater nearby, grabbed a ticket, and slipped into the midnight showing of "John Wick."

Surveying the dense crowd from the back row, Chad marveled at the packed theater.

Full!

He blended in, an ordinary viewer nestled among fans in the last row, absorbing the film in quietude, finding solace in the experience.

For him, firsthand viewing trumped all the hearsay on the internet.

The theater remained hushed throughout. Not a soul ventured out even for a bathroom break.

No lulls!

When Martin obliterated a villain's head with a Coke bottle, the theater crackled like a dormant volcano suddenly erupting.

The crowd roared, a chorus shouting: "Coke God of War! Coke God of War!"

As the credits rolled, the fervor exploded anew, cheers resonating.

Applause rippled through the screening hall, an eruption of appreciation lasting long, echoing a grand premiere.

In that moment, Chad felt a whirlwind in his mind, lost in the euphoria of creating something incredibly captivating.

The audience's love surpassed every other measure of success.

Once the show ended, Chad lingered in the corner until the last person left, then rose and strolled out, heart pounding with excitement.

With Martin's gifted iPhone in hand, he excitedly dialed the team: "Guys, we've triumphed!"

Mene, still soothing Celine Dion, quipped, "Isn't it expected with Boss Martin?"

Standing roadside, leaning against a lamppost, Chad chuckled, the weight lifting off him, nearly unable to stay upright.

He dialed Martin again, breathless. "Chad?"

Struggling to catch his breath, Chad reassured, "All good."

As he ended the call, a figure in a black suit, akin to Jonathan's, approached, Chad readied a pen, thinking the figure wanted an autograph.

"Don't move!" The figure brandished a small revolver, demanding Chad's phone.

Compliant, Chad handed it over.

The figure, this Joker, succeeded in the robbery and vanished into the night.