Gently brushing off the cigarette ashes from the right leg of his crimson velvet jumpsuit, Lux Interior sighed. The script was too sexist, and the “Majorette Line” scene overtopped the whole thing. Too seventies. The next decade wouldn’t be so lenient with them.
– Greasey, look, ‘snot like I’m here to tell you what to do, but this script is the worst sexploitation crap I have come across in a long time. Word of a wanker, ‘sides!
– Why don’t you go and fuck yourself once and fer’ll, eh? Stanley’s seen it, too. Nothing short of a great parody of great art, he exhaled.
– Ain’t got no clue what the fuck he was on when and if he said that, but lemme tell you: get this thing out to the distributors and they’re gonna send you back chicken bones, an’at. And then, the feminists are gonna circumcise your colon as if it was…
Willard “Greasey” Bates motioned him to stop. He turned his chair to face the urban landscape spreading out of his dirty window. Not dirty enough for Lux to avoid seeing the reflection of “Greasey” picking chest-hairs and chewing them up as if they were but chocolate shrapnel. Interior started feeling bad about Bates. After all, he wasn’t such a bad scoundrel. He had met worse in his time…
– Hey, Willey, let’s give it another try. Run that scene again and explain me how that fucking sorry mess is supposed to allegorize the struggle of 19th Century English working-class women against the rise of the European modern state… After all, you might have another “SomDome” here…
– You ain’t kidding, you bloody pale faggot, are you?—“Greasey” asked with utter contempt.
– No, my friend—Lux answered, now feeling a little bit better—, but before we see that again, just hear my Jewish detective pitch…
