Director Michael Bay sits in executive producer Steven Spielberg’s opulent office. The joint in Bay’s hand is so large he can hardly hold it, and he’s smoked half of it already. Through the smoky haze of crack and cannabis filling the room, Bay can hardly see Spielberg, sat there behind his blood-diamond-encrusted desk.
Spielberg’s crack pipe stretches off his work surface like an immoral didgeridoo. His lit end almost meets Bay’s.
Spielberg exhales a cloud. “Okay,” he says. “Transformers. Very silly. But they loved it.”
“Yep”, Bay says, chin tucked into his neck, choking on fumes.
“Transformers 2,” says Spielberg. “Louder. Sillier. Noisier. And more successful.” He greedily snatches the crack pipe off Bay and slams in a lungful. He coughs it out. “Let’s do a third. I want to hear your ideas. You’re the artist. You make beautiful work, Bay.”
“Really?” Bay asks, like a ten-year-old.
Spielberg slams his fist down, making the table jump. Bay jumps too.
“Yes, Goddamnit,” Spielberg says. “But this time, I want it bigger. Bolder. And utterly retarded. Gimme a premise, Bay. Where shall we set it?”
Bay takes another noxious drag. “Um… the moon.”
Spielberg begins tapping his pen loudly on the desk’s surface. He stares at Bay. Bay stares back. They trade smirks.
Spielberg lazily grabs some letter-headed paper. “Okay…”
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