Ghostbuster (1984) - Interlude

Author's Note: Every single chapter title alludes to a movie or a television series that I have watched and enjoyed immensely, and would whole-heartedly recommend to you all.

I have a p-word now, so if you feel like reading 8 advanced chapters for $6, or 5 advanced chapter for $4, then feel free to join. Link is in this fic's summary, or you can just search 'Archonstine' on patreon... whatever floats your boat!

Also, join my discord will ya? For movie and tv-show recommendations and character images. And also it's the one place where I ask you all for suggestions. The link is in this book's bio.

P.S, donate some power stones while you're at it. And maybe... write up a review?

4th January 1998 (Sunday)

Martin Lawrence (POV)

"SON OF A- FUCKIN' BITCH!"

I tried to intervene verbally, while at the same time edging away from him inch by inch in an effort to be spared his fury, "No-no don- don't smash tha-, ok too late for that but just- relax ok? Just please for God's sake calm down boss just- Harvey please!"

He frantically looked around the office, before tumbling towards a drawer and taking out- 

"Oh fuck no, please just- no don't do that! Don't-" I was far too late.

Snort

Seeing him vanish a line of cocaine finally gave me the courage I needed to take action.

"That's it! No, that's it-" I start as I storm towards the table, swiping the contents of the table onto the floor, including the coke, ensuring he's cut off for the time being before manhandling his heavy ass into a seat, all the while he gives not a hint of resistance, right until he realizes what happened and then tries to-

"What the fuck are you- GET OFF ME YOU- sonova-"

All the while I keep him down, restraining him with my arms as I make eye contact, "Not until you calm the fuck down! Damn it Harvey just- what's wrong huh? So there was a little setback-"

"LITTLE?! A little setback- 4 MONTHS OF MY LIFE ENDED UP IN THE FUCKING DRAIN AND YOU- LITTLE?!" He rages on, eyes bloodshot, as white hot rage emanates from him.

"OK FINE! SORRY, YOU HAPPY NOW?!" I shout right back… unwise now that I think about it but screw that… in for a penny, in for a pound, "HAPPY? HUH? NOW WILL YOU- FOR GOD'S SAKE JUS- calm the fuck down?!" 

His eyes wide as saucers, he finally slackened on the chair, staring into his lap. 

"What happened man? You go to Sundance, and now you come back like this, wha-what happened Harvey? Tell me, it's me man! You trust me right? Just tell-" I say earnestly, sitting back in a chair opposite his.

He stayed silent for a few more seconds. I did not interrupt. I knew better than that. When he's coked up, it's best to just take things at his pace. Trying to set one yourself is just a disaster waiting to happen, as Eugene found out the hard way… poor Eugene.

"My movie… the one that I- it premiered at Sundance. 'Handlebars'... I worked tirelessly, days without sleep to generate Oscar buzz… it was all primed to win. I had an in with the jury and everything, it was all ready. The Grand Jury… all we had to do, was fuckin' win it." He raised his eyes to look at me- holy shit. They're redder than that of a bull. "And then it happened. This indie flick, this little- 100 min runtime, runt of the litter jus- jus-" He started shaking his head in quick motion, blinking away rapidly simultaneously, looking more and more deranged by the second. 

Crazy thing is… I had seen worse before. This was still- he had time before he passed out.

"I'm gonna need a little more Harv, come on don't hold back on me! Tell me what happened Harvey!"

And then he laid it all out. His voice changed between fierce clarity, and outright slurring, as he explained it all… 

Apparently, he had spent millions on the 'Handlebars' marketing campaign, money that the movie in question had just not made… yet. 

He expected the movie to take home the 'Grand Jury Prize' in the dramatic category, which in turn would generate Oscar buzz. And considering the controversial subject matter in the film- *cough racism *cough, a Best Picture nomination would have been near guaranteed, which in turn would've propelled its box office gross by a minimum 28%... Max 80. 

A ridiculous growth, but nevertheless a number that would have more than justified the wallet-busting ad campaign that Harvey here… had personally vouched for. 

The thing is… his arguably insane plan hinged on his movie hitting the home run in this year's Sundance, not… whatever this was. 

Handlebars, while being acknowledged as a solid movie overall, failed to garner significant critical attention, much less that of the general audiences. As for the audience award category, polls indicated that it didn't even come close to surpassing the winner… the movie that took home 3 awards in the festival.

All 3 categories were of the US Dramatic genre, one given out by the Jury, one by the audience, and one for his Directing. Suffice it to say, that it was a watershed moment in Sundance's history, considering no movie before had ever been lauded with 3 awards from a single ceremony. 

And all 3 were presented to the same man, the one largely responsible for me having to handle Harvey in his coke-induced rage today… Ricky fuckin' Stirling.

Oh, I had heard of the man. Precious few in the industry hadn't before the events of 2nd January. And after that day? The day the Golden Globes aired, and the BAFTA noms were announced? 

He is a household name as of now, with nearly everyone singing his praises from the valley to the hills. You can't turn the pages of a Hollywood mag, without coming across his name in big bold letters.

And Harvey here thinks that he somehow managed to throw a wrench in his plans… plans he had no way of knowing, with a slim chance of success notwithstanding the now famous, 'Sundance Sweep'?

Nah, Handlebars was poised to lose from the start. It was good, no doubt 'bout that. But the way it gives out its message, the heavy-handedness of it all… no way in hell was the Academy gonna give it more than a glance in the first place… I reckon Harvey just needed- no... wanted a convenient scapegoat for this mess. He's gonna have to answer to the overlords at Warner Bros, why he authorized 12 million down the fucking drain without nothing to show for it. 

As I contemplate the situation at hand, Harvey looks up to the opposing wall, menacingly even. "It's him, I'm- m'fucking sure of it Marty. Has to be," He starts shaking his head in disbelief, his behavior becoming increasingly erratic in nature, "It's all in the blood Marty! Like asshole father, like cocky son! I just- yes! Of course- don't you- don't you see Martin? It's obvious! It's that cocksucking bastard! It's him Marty, it's him!" At this point, he wipes off the contents on his desk, before getting up and grabbing me by the shoulders- oh! FUCK! The- his mouth smells, it- oh fuck off!

I keep a blank expression as I disconnect myself from his grasp, "There are hundreds, who you have called 'cocksucking bastards' Harvey-" He interrupts me with a snarl, "AMBROSE! It's always him! Remember '94?! I crushed him like a soda can, and now- it's him Marty! He's back for round 2 I reckon-" He mutters off…

Yeah… no. I'm like- 90% sure it's not Ambrose, much less his son. Ambrose quit the game in '94, and ain't no way in hell is he making a resurgence anytime soon. I mean, granted he got a producer credit in 'Good Will Hunting', but I would chalk that up to supporting his son's ambitions, not having any of his own. 

And for 'Whiplash', his perfect little darling not only split from Sterling very publicly, but even poached some of their staff to launch his own banner, some Mid-ass crap or something I believe. They made that shit from scratch, without any involvement or funding from Sterling whatsoever, and they started making it, before Handlebars entered post-production… they had no way of knowing the timeline.

Even if they did, no way in hell did their priorities include one-upping anyone, considering it was their debut in this world… much less sniping Harvey in any way. 

As for Ambrose… nah. It's not his style. He might be British, but one thing he's always preferred is a good old fashioned standoff, the kind in Western classics. And then bragging about it for weeks on end. He wouldn't resort to something like this… Hell no!

Harvey is just seeing ghosts where there are none, the paranoid son of a bitch. Trying to shrug off the blame onto someone else like usual, not even acknowledging the shortcoming of his, frankly outlandish plan!

But will I bring that to his attention? Will I point out the obvious fallacy in his logic? Oh, FUCK NO! The demented fuck in his coke-addled rage, will just shout me out of the room, all the while, humiliating me in front of my colleagues!

Will he believe me right now? No! Will he calm down eventually? Sure! Will he believe me then? No fuckin' way. 

His ego is bigger than Mars, but then again… so is the size of his stomach, the absolute glutton. 

So I nod along, a comprehending expression on my visage, "You know what Harvey? That's- I didn't wanna admit it but, yeah. What you said makes- perfect sense!"

And like any narcissistic asshole, he preens… he fucking preens. "I told you Marty! 'Course it makes sense- why wouldn't it? Ambrose that- slimy motherfucker- he's always been out to get me! Especially after the whole thing with Cindy a decade ago… I ought to have killed that bitch Marty. Choked her for all she's worth, for daring to write that godforsaken note." Oh… Cindy… who is that?

I verbalized as much, only for him to dismiss it, with a wave, "Oh, just another bitch in a long line of bitches. I made a deal with her a decade ago. Held up my end, and she- she didn't. So I called her up to my room to discuss reparations, and one thing led to another and… well, I admit- things got slightly out of hand back then-"

Oh… fuck. 

"Anyways, I tell her to keep her trap shut. But does she? Oh no-no-no-no-NO! She goes and fuckin' rats off to Ambrose, and then throws herself off some building downtown, leaving a blasted note of all things! I took care of it of course, had to wet the hands of a couple of cops, but Ambrose… that bitch called him. Probably read out the fucking note to him before offing herself! And the next thing I know, he ramps things up, tryna bump me off at every goddamn turn! We faced off every year after that, again and again and again until… '94…" 

Oh, that is- one creepy ass smile if I've ever seen one. As for Cindy- tragic stuff. Nothing new I mean, Harvey's done more crazier stuff than that but- I'm not gonna think too hard about this. 

It's Hollywood, probably happening at every damn corner. The city's cursed as far as I'm concerned. 'Los Angeles'... the city of Angels… what a fucking joke.

Lucifer himself probably vacations here.

"Oh it was glorious Marty! It was just… fucking glorious–"

"I know man, I remember. I was there back then." I cut in, trying my level best to stop his excessive droning, "We all know what happened, Tarantino saves our asses-"

"Tarantino saved our collective asses." He talked over me, falling- yep, falling back on his seat.

I bet the chair squeaked in pain you fat fuck.

After a beat of silence, he spoke again, this time in a soft tone. "It's Ambrose Marty. I'm so sure of it, it's fuckin- I just know it. It's got to be. And his precious little boy, the vehicle of revenge."

After a few more seconds of silence I finally gave in to the pressures of my job, "What do you wanna do?" I asked… a hint of resignation in my voice. Luckily, Harvey, still deep in his snow, didn't catch it.

"I think it's 'bout time the kid learns his lesson. He's gonna- he is gonna fucking rue the day he crossed me. Marty!"

"Yes boss?"

"The new rom-com, the one- whatsitcalled-"

"Shakespeare in Love?"

"Yes! Yes- that one! I'm thinking- if Ambrose can do it, then so can I!"

I clear my throat, "What exactly are you talking about Harvey?"

"The Producer credit Marty! Keep up dammit! I remember it all! He got a producer credit for Good Will Hunting. He didn't do jackshit on the set! He's the fucking President for God's sake! If he can do it, then SO. CAN. I!" He banged the desk with every word.

I flinch every single time, as I stay on my toes… who knows? He might just chuck something at my face with how volatile he's being.

A manic look enters his eyes, as he forms his plans for next year… It seems '98 is about to be a turbulent year for Miramax… and Ricky Stirling.

Good Luck kiddo… you'll end up needing a fuckton of it down the road I reckon.