by Stan Lerner
CHAPTER TEN
Up In Smoke
Danny stood at the end of the conference table where the two very unhappy looking rappers sat.
"Sounds like bullshit," said the rapper known as Little Biscuit.
"No, sounds like bullshit money to me," added LLBJ.
Danny shook his head. "My brothers, money is money. Get it while the getting is green," he implored evangelically.
"Where the fuck is Stan?" LLBJ asked. "He'll straighten this shit out."
Danny decided it was time to play the blame game. "It's the studio. Even Stan the man can't change this plan."
Little Biscuit slouched down even further in his seat. "No, fuck that Danny!"
Danny stood taller, trying to get a good look at Little Biscuit-baffled as to why young rappers couldn't sit up in their chairs. "Listen, my upset little brother. You're under the Stan Peters' umbrella. For an honor like that, you should be willing to work for free."
Little Biscuit's eyes became slits and his lips puckered together like a child about to throw a tantrum. "Tell Stan we want our fucking money or we're walking the fuck out of here."
Just as Little Biscuit finished his provocative statement, Stan walked in-now dressed in a black mink coat and lots of bling jewelry. Five monstrous gang bangers followed behind him.
"Yo dog, walk the fuck out of where, G?" Stan asked, pimp rolling toward the table.
Both rappers got up to give Stan some love.
Little Biscuit asked, "What's up, nigger?" half-hugging Stan.
"Same old bullshit," answered Stan, grinning to reveal the removable gold-tooth cap, encrusted with a perfect half-carat diamond. "Got the popo at the studio on my ass."
LLBJ slid back down into his chair. "Yo dog, seventy percent pay cut. We ain't no kind of bitches. This is some fucked up bullshit."
Beau Gibson, the handsome, fifty-something, African American attorney well known for representing rappers, spoke for the first time. "Stan, we have a contract." His baritone voice left no doubt that he was as straight as an arrow. Beau Gibson, the famous bowtie-wearing attorney, was well known for being absolutely incorruptible.
Stan sat, followed by Danny and Little Biscuit. Stan's thugs stood in a row behind his chair.
Stan looked at the diamond rings that covered the fingers of his right hand and then adjusted the diamond tennis bracelet on his right wrist. The tennis bracelet had been made to match the diamond necklace that he was wearing. All together the bling kit had cost three million dollars which, fortunately enough, he was able to bill to an urban movie titled "Diamonds Be A Nigger Gangsta's Best Friend". After fiddling with the bling long enough to make everyone nervous, Stan began to talk some real shit.
"Yo Beau, I be feel'n your concern. But before everybody be getting hostile, let's relax and dialogue." Stan pulled a huge joint from the pocket of his black mink jacket and put a torch to it. He took a monster Cheech and Chong hit then passed it to LLBJ. "That's some good shit, dog. It will fuck you up," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke into the room.
LLBJ took a monster hit like Stan. His eyes glassed over. "Fuck yeah, that's dope- ass shit. What the fuck is it?"
Stan pointed at Little Biscuit, the signal for LLBJ to be sharing. "You've heard of Chronic?" Stan asked.
"Oh yeah," LLBJ answered.
Stan nodded. "Well this shit is called Critical. Because one hit puts you in critical condition."
Little Biscuit exhaled. "Fuck, you my nigger! Where'd you get this fucking weed?" he asked, so stoned that he didn't even realize that he had just passed the joint to Beau, the famously straight-laced attorney.
Stan watched Beau examine the joint for a moment then take the biggest hit yet. "From my doctor, it's extra strength medical marijuana."
"Fuck, what you got to have to get this shit?" asked Little Biscuit.
Danny took a hit and passed the joint back to Stan, who took another hit even though he was already plenty stoned. "Well normally you have to be dying an incredibly painful death. But I opted to option a medical drama, if you get my drift."
"I can't feel my face," Beau's baritone voice exclaimed. "Is it supposed to feel like this?"
"Close your eyes and just go with it," suggested Stan, not able to feel his own face either-and enjoying it.
"This is fucking intense," Beau said, before accepting the joint Stan was passing to him.
Little Biscuit turned his chair slightly toward his famous attorney. "Nigger, when's the last time you smoked?"
Beau thought for a second. "Actually I haven't smoked since college. Man, I am fuckin lit."
"Yeah, you're going to be a lot more lit soon motherfucker," Little Biscuit laughed.
LLBJ slapped his own thighs. "Yo, I can't move my legs."
Beau started laughing. "If I have to piss, I'm just going to piss in my pants."
Stan took another hit. "It's all good."
"How do we get this shit?" asked Little Biscuit.
Stan snapped his fingers and one of the thugs handed him a stack of new contracts, which Stan took and slid down the table. "Sign these new contracts and I'll get you all you want."
Little Biscuit smiled, getting the game. "So we got to get fucked to get high?"
Stan shook his head coolly. "No, you have to get fucked to get this fucking high." He looked at Beau and held out the last of the monster joint, already starting to feel really hungry.
Beau took the joint greedily. "Gentleman, as your lawyer, I recommend you do the deal. This is incredible shit."
"Fuck it, rap music is a scam anyway," Little Biscuit said as he signed the new contract.
"No bullshit," LLBJ agreed, then laughed. "I can write ten songs a day," he admitted as he signed his new contract.
Stan pulled another monster joint from the pocket of his black mink coat and lit it. There was no point in stopping now.
Little Biscuit took a hit and exhaled. "I mean we knew we could make bank on black folks. But who would have ever thought a bunch of dumb white motherfuckers would listen to this shit!"
"I bet you guys aren't even from the ghetto," Stan said, stoned out of his mind.
Danny just giggled like a schoolgirl at the question.
LLBJ took a hit. "The ghetto? I'm born and raised in the 90210. The closest I've ever been to the ghetto is South Beverly Hills."
Stan's eyes rolled to Little Biscuit.
Little Biscuit looked down at the table. "Don't look at me dog, I grew up in Calabasas. I didn't even know I was black until my parents told me. I was eight fucking years old. Man I was like, 'Fuck, you told me there was no Santa Clause before you told me I was black.' Anyway, I went to Harvard Westlake; my dad is a college professor and my mom is an accountant."
Stan looked from one rapper to the other. "Well guys, you may be taking a big pay cut, but at least you'll be too fucked up to care."
Ray and Iren were shucking and rolling towards the conference room dressed in the exact same outfits as Stan when the door opened, emitting a large cumulous nimbus cloud of smoke into the hallway. Danny and Stan appeared to float out in its mist.
"Yo, what's going on motherfucker?" shouted Iren.
Stan tried to wave away some of the smoke so as to get a better view of Iren and Ray. "The meeting's over."
"How'd it go?" Iren asked, his curiosity overriding his disappointment at not being part of ripping off the rappers.
Stan was momentarily distracted by Iren's white ostrich skin Gucci sandals.
Danny, sensing this, answered, "They got screwed better than Jenna Jamison in "Night Of A Thousand Cocks"."
Ray rubbed his hand down his mink coat. "Man we got all dressed up."
Iren's voice was excited. "They took a seventy percent pay cut?"
"And a lot of weed," Stan answered. "But what the hell, we have more than we can smoke anyway."
"You know, if your little plan works and Brad becomes our bitch, we could reverse their pay cut," suggested Iren, trying to feel out just how impaired Stan really wa
s.
Stan burst into hysterical laughter, joined by Danny.
"And I thought we were smoking some good shit," Danny gasped.
"They should be paying us," Ray said with disgust. "I don't know how anyone listens to that crap. Man, when I was growing up you could catch a beating just for looking at a girl the wrong way. Now you can't get laid if you're not calling them bitches or whores."
Stan turned to Ray. "They had music when you were growing up?" He looked back at Danny and they continued to laugh.
"Come on, I'm fucking serious," Ray, insisted. " I know we do a lot of bad shit. But putting out all these songs that kids listen to. I mean there's a song on the new sound- track called 'Suck My Dick You Underage Bitch'."
Stan shook his head. "No, we changed that."
"To what?" asked a hopeful Ray.
Stan tried to keep a straight face. "'Reach For Your Toes You Statutory Ho's'. See, even I don't want to offend the parents of our best customers." Stan laughed again.
Iren nodded. "Offend their parents? What are you, kidding? Their parents have no idea what's going on."
Ray was in denial. "There's got to be at least one parent somewhere that's concerned about the shit we're selling."
Stan reached into his pocket, hoping to find another joint since Ray was killing his buzz. "Ray, we can't be in these people's homes," Stan pulled his hand out, empty. "And let me tell you, some of the parents listen to this shit too."
Ray had the stunned look of a man whose testicles had just met a pair of jumper cables attached to a car battery. "You're fucking kidding me?"
"Ray, a lot of these parents think they're teenagers themselves. They smoke pot with their kids and fuck their nannies."
"What's wrong with fucking the nanny?" asked a concerned Danny.
"Nothing, but I'm trying to make a point. Which is, all of this thirty is the new twenty bullshit is ludicrous. If we're really going to start messing around with the aging process, forty should be the new seventeen-which at least would expand my dating options."
Danny tapped his finger on the face of his diamond-crusted Rolex. "Speaking of being in people's homes."
"Is it show time?" asked Stan, moving past the disappointment of having not found more sticks in his pocket to put the torch to.
"Boss, in a few more minutes Brad Jones will be getting more camera coverage than a high-speed car chase," Danny assured.
Stan smiled. "I can't wait. Oh by the way, how did that little double homicide thing go?"
"What the fuck happened to your tooth?" asked Ray, distracted by a blinding flash of light from Stan's mouth.
Stan smiled for their closer inspection. Iren, being a Jew, always had a jeweler 's loop on him. He pulled it from his pocket and held it up to Stan's mouth. "That's a flawless half-carat. Better not swallow that thing or we'll have to have the interns go through your shit."
Stan reached up with his thumb and forefinger and pulled the cap off. He admired the diamond, then handed it to Danny. "Put it away before Iren has some college kids straining my stool."
Danny looked at the fake tooth in the palm of his hand. It was still moist and he didn't know what to say. So, he just waited for the boss to continue.
"Now, as far as our good deed for the day?" Stan gesticulated with his right hand in a rolling forward motion for Danny to tell him more about their murder cover-up.
Danny nodded with great satisfaction and bit his lower lip as he did so. Stan had learned on the Discovery Channel that this was a sure sign of a compelling story to come.
"Boss, I wish you could have been there to see it."
Danny stood in the very large bedroom of Warren's Beverly Hills mansion. At the entrance to the bedroom was a sitting room, appointed with black and deep burgundy furniture situated around a half wall. This contained an entertainment center in the middle of which was a 53-inch plasma screen. Warren, cleaned-up and well dressed in one of Danny's brown Versace pinstripe suits, stood next to Danny-thirty feet beyond the sitting room in front of the king-size, heavy wood, four-poster-bed.
Danny looked around the bedroom. His eyes paused at the bed where the two brutally shotgunned bodies lay. One of the shotgun blasts up the fag decorator's ass had blown the top of his head off. Most of his gene defective brain was now splattered on the spectacular David Hockney that hung above the headboard.
Danny stared at the painting. "You know, I kind of like what you've done with the Hockney." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It really adds some dimension to the work. There's something very Frank Stella about it."
Warren's eyes drifted up from the carnage that had been his wife, the love of his life-to have and to hold until death did they part-to the painting. "I see your point. But I don't think the cops will let me keep it that way."
"Well that's a damn shame," Danny commented. "Warren, I do have to ask you a serious question, if you're feeling up to it."
"I knew what I was doing and I enjoyed it," Warren said, calm and preemptively.
Danny stepped forward and touched the right rear bedpost. "What I wanted to ask you was whether or not you've ever tied anyone up to these things. I mean, it's kinky, but I've always fantasized about it."
Warren nodded. "I used to tie my whore wife up to them all the time. You know Danny, what really hurts me?"
Danny walked around the side of the bed and noticed that Warren really had blown his cheating bitch of a wife's face off. He also noticed that the thread count of the sheets and pillowcases seemed to be at least 800, a very good count. "Well, if it were me, it would be the damage to the linen."
Warren nodded. "I don't think I can ever sleep in that bed again. And it's a real bitch to move."
Danny stood next to Warren and looked at the fine piece of furniture. He put his hand on Warren's shoulder to comfort him the way only a true friend can do. "I'll take it off your hands if you want."
A single tear emerged then rolled from the corner of Warren's eye down the side of his cheek. "Thanks man. It's going to take a football team to get it out of here."
"I'll get some brothers down in South Central to move it to my place. They'll probably want to work at night when the boss lets them use the truck for their own jobs, if you know what I mean."
Warren shrugged. "Not a problem. I'm sure I won't be able to sleep anyway."
Danny laughed. "Not with all the chicks we'll have in the Jacuzzi by then."
"And that's a hell of a Jacuzzi you got back there!" Ed commented as he walked into the room. "You could get twenty people in that thing. And I love the Pebble Tech pool!"
Danny extended his hand. "Good to see you, Detective. Thanks for coming on such short notice. So, what do you think about the swim-up bar between the Jacuzzi and the pool?"
"Impressive." Ed shrugged and looked at Warren, "A lot of terrible accidents happen in pools and Jacuzzis in this town." He nodded toward the bed. "I mean, it would have been a lot easier on everybody if their affair had ended in the Jacuzzi."
Warren looked down, ashamed of his lack of creativity. Since becoming an executive, something had happened to it. It was as if he was out of touch with the rest of the world. "I don't know what to say, Detective. I just came home and found them like this."
Ed nodded. "It's obviously a murder/suicide." He walked up to the large bed and pulled the shotgun barrel out of the fag's ass. He looked at the shotgun for a moment. "You know, if everyone would just get one of these for the house, the world would be a much better place." Ed looked at the dead cheating bitch closely. She was lying on her stomach, her head turned to the right, and her face missing. His trajectory analysis led his eyes to the lampshade on the nightstand. "Well, that's not good."
Danny stepped forward-seeing what the detective's highly trained eye had so adroitly noticed. "Oh shit! You're not kidding."
"What is it?" Warren asked, panicked.
The detective pointed at the light switch on the wall. "Turn on the lights. You have some real trouble my friend."
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Warren approached the light panel with dread and with great trepidation he depressed the button. "Oh fuck!" he said, stepping forward. His wife's face was stuck to the lampshade of the rare Tiffany lamp. With the light on, she appeared as a macabre mask.
Danny put his hand on Warren's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a rare Tiffany. I have two. I just feel for you right now."
Warren stared at his dead wife's transplanted face. "Is it possible to love someone even if you hate what they've done to you?"
"Not according to Stan," Danny responded. "Stan says, 'that someone who loves someone that fucks them over is fucked in the head.'"
"Thanks Danny. That's some profound stuff."
Ed pulled a notepad from his pocket, wrote a number on it and handed it to Warren. "I'm not supposed to do this, but call that number. The guy specializes in this type of restoration."
Warren folded the paper and put it into his pocket. "Thanks, I don't know what to say."
Ed gently pushed on Warren's wife's shoulder-getting just enough clearance from the mattress to slip the shotgun underneath her. Then, even more carefully, he wrapped her cold, dead hand around the gun. "One last little thing," he said, poking her lifeless finger through the metal loop and then wrapping it around the trigger. "We'll just keep this between us, okay fellas?" Ed smiled and gave Warren and Danny a wink.
Danny nodded. "Oh shit she killed him and then killed herself. I mean of course I see what you mean now." He looked at Warren.
Warren shrugged. "What should I do now, Detective?"
"Well, now that I've got your full statement, there's no point in hanging around here. You two should probably go grab a drink somewhere quiet?Try to look upset, cry a little, that kind of thing. Oh and whatever you do, don't go shopping for a while-it looks terrible."
Danny pointed his finger at Ed like a pistol and dropped his thumb like the hammer. "Gotcha, Ed. I'll be sure to tell Stan what a great help you've been to us in Warren's time of need."
They all smiled warmly at each other, thankful to live in such a great town-a place where creativity wasn't just a business or an accounting system but a way of life.
Danny paused to let the docent, leading a tour group, explain one of the masterpieces on the wall of the Peters Entertainment hallway. "Mr. Peters has a particular inclination toward using large Sam Francis oils in communal footways. I am told it is his belief that the broad array of colors taken from the Francis pallet stimulates free thinking and creativity in the workplace." The group moved on.
Stan looked at Danny. "Free thinking, communal footways? Where do they get this shit from?"
"Well boss, she can't exactly say that you bought them because they look cool when you're rolling on E."
Stan shook his head. "Speaking of E, we really have to get a new supplier before Burning Man this year. Anyway, are you telling me Ed ruled it a murder suicide in three minutes flat?"
"I think it took about two minutes to be exact, boss. Oh-and Warren promised he would get the studio to pick up the tab for "Murder In Tinseltown"".
Stan's mouth stretched into a broad smile. "Now that's what I call a Hollywood- style happy ending!"
Danny nodded toward the office. "We better go. It's almost time."
Stan clapped his hands together. "This is going to be great."
"Great, would be an explanation of why you're dressed like that!"
Stan turned toward the voice behind him and looked down at the stout man in the three-piece-suit. "Is that a real pocket watch?" he asked, his eyes having been drawn directly to the gold chain.
"Yes, it is," said the stout gentleman, his puffy cheeks ejecting the annoyed, yet prideful words through a wide, confident mouth.
"Did you lose your docent? Visitors are supposed to be supervised."
"Do you have any idea who I am?"
Stan looked at the blank faces of Iren, Ray, and Danny before answering. "Not a clue." Stan sniffed the air. "But I smell money." He sniffed the air again. "Wait?I smell a lot of money. Who are you? I like you already!" Stan put his arm around Nelson Ballsworth. "Shall we repose in my study? By the looks of you, I think you'll find it quite comfortable," Stan said guiding him through the antique, mahogany doors.
Nelson looked around the impressive, even by Ballsworth' standards, wood paneled room filled with first editions. "You've built a replica of the Hearst Castle Library in your office?"
Stan smiled proudly. "An exact replica to be precise. But how do you know that? Did you know old man Hearst? Who are you? C'mon old boy, the suspense is killing me."
"Mr. Peters, I'm Nelson Ballsworth. But please feel free to not call me old boy. And yes, I did know Mr. Hearst."
The color drained from the faces of Iren, Ray, and Danny simultaneously. Stan gestured towards the brown leather chairs on each side of the fireplace. "Nelson, what an unexpected pleasure. I've always wanted to meet you. Why didn't you call and let us know you were coming by? Please have a seat."
"Since, for no reason I can understand, we're on a first name basis. Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit, Stan?" Nelson sat down in the chair with a grunt.
Stan looked down the length of his torso and back up. "I just concluded a meeting that required some urban sensitivities. I'll be back in my suit as soon as we're done." Stan walked to the bar. "Will you join me for some Louis XIII and a Cohiba."
"Yes, thank you." Nelson's eyes focused on the plexiglass box, next to where he sat-it contained a Guttenberg Bible.
Stan handed him an antique snifter filled a third of the way with Louis and a cigar cut perfectly round the way he preferred. Stan flicked open a sterling silver Dupont lighter and Nelson leaned over, puffing his stogy to life. Stan, satisfied that his guest was comfortable, sat and crossed his legs-assuming a portrait like stature.
"This is a fine cigar, young man," Nelson said, sounding quite pleased.
"I'm glad you smoke. So many people today have given up the finer pleasures in life."
Nelson nodded. "From what I understand, you and your associates here are making up for them."
Stan lit his own cigar. "I feel a sense of duty." Danny laughed which caused Ray and Iren to wince.
Nelson gave Danny a condescending smile. "That's all right, it's good to laugh and enjoy life." He turned to Stan, his lips taking the form of a perfectly straight line. "But not too much. Because people who enjoy life too much usually do things that embarrass people like me. And people like me, above all else, do not like to be embarrassed. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Stan placed his cigar on the lip of the ashtray that sat on the table next to him. It teetered perfectly. "Balance-work hard, play hard," Stan said, looking down at the ashtray.
"Stan, my brother likes you, the board likes you, even that sycophant Brad that I put in charge of the studio likes you. But while you may have them fooled, you don't fool me. Not even for one second. A man's word and good name is everything in this world. As impressive and prolific a money maker you may be, I'm going to make it my mission to see that you grow up and do things the right way."
Stan sipped his drink. "Nelson, does the Peters Entertainment IPO have anything to do with your sudden interest in my moral development?"
"There will be no Peters Entertainment IPO," Nelson puffed on his cigar. Then continued, "Without a guarantee that the studio will continue to distribute your movies. And how can I let the studio do that if I can't be sure that you will be making the types of movies I approve of?"
"May I speak candidly?" Stan swirled the alcohol in his glass.
"It would be refreshing if someone in this town would do so." Nelson pointed his cigar at Stan. "Please, feel free."
"Bread and the circus," Stan said in a soft serious tone.
"What?" Nelson asked looking at him askew.
Stan repeated, "Bread and the circus." He put his drink down and leaned forward, pressing his hands together as if praying. "I'm quot
ing Caesar to Caesar. Most of your business is bread. Meeting people's basic needs. Your family, and my own, have been doing this for almost two centuries. And for most of that time it was enough. People were happy just to survive. But now the world is rich, Rome has risen again from its ashes and people want more-they want the circus, Nelson. They need food to live. But they need entertainment to make them want to live. I give them that and I'm no fucking tax write off. I'm taking Peters Entertainment public. And if the studio won't distribute my films, I'll find another studio that will."
Nelson clapped. "Bravo, bravo. No wonder they like you so much-you do have Ballsworth sized balls." He placed a hand on each thigh as if to brace himself for a jolly laugh. "Listen young man, there's no studio I can't buy and there's no investment banker that will cross Ballcom. But you go ahead with your IPO." Nelson stood up with some effort. "I will impede your every move until you make the kind of movies that I approve of. In fact, I'm going to tell Brad to stick his head so far up your rectum he'll be hearing you think."
Stan stood. "Nelson, it's been a pleasure meeting you. Next time we should do lunch."
Nelson laughed. "You might not be able to afford it, son. Thanks for the fine smoke and drink. I'll show myself out."
A feather landing on the floor would have made a thunderous sound as all eyes watched Nelson waddle out the doors to the hallway. Stan held up his hand in order to preempt any comments and picked up the phone on the table. "Marle, get me Sumner Ballsworth on the phone."
There was a long pause. "Sumner Ballsworth speaking."
"Mr. Ballsworth, this is Stan Peters calling you from Los Angeles."
"Yes, Stan. What can I do for you?" his voice had a light heartedness about it that could only mean the call was anticipated.
"Your brother Nelson just left my office."
"I thought he might come to see you. He's very concerned about all the money we're earning on those movies you seem to have such a knack for making."
"May I call you Sumner?"
"Please do. I want us to be friends."
"Sumner, how do I get your brother off my back? I can't have someone from the nineteenth century censoring my work."
"Well Stan, my brother is a powerful enemy to have. He can cause you a great deal of trouble at the studio and he can hurt your stock on Wall Street. You need a friend-a very powerful friend. Someone like-me."
"How much, Sumner?"
"Twenty percent of Peters Entertainment pre-IPO would make us very good friends. And I'll see to it that your distribution fee is capped at let's say-fifteen percent for the next ten years."
"Done deal," Stan said without hesitation-knowing better than to ever get himself into a fight he couldn't possibly win.
"You're a very smart young man. I've got big plans for you. And don't worry about that new studio boss my brother hired to do his bidding. I'll figure out a way to keep him in check."
Danny waved at Stan and then pointed at his watch while mouthing the words. "It's time."
Stan nodded toward Danny. "Thanks, Sumner. But that won't be necessary?I'll have my lawyers draw up a stock purchase agreement and send it over to you tomorrow."
"I'll be looking for it."
Stan hung up the phone and pointed out the doors to his office. "Let's go. I don't want to miss this."
"You're really going to sell twenty percent of the company to Ballcom?" Ray asked getting up from his seat.
Stan nodded. "Why not? Sumner's not such a bad old guy and he's loaded, really fucking loaded. Besides, who better to keep Nelson off my back?"
"What if they keep buying stock after we go public? You could lose control of the company," Iren's tone indicated that he saw the writing on the wall.
Stan held his hands up to his chest and wiggled his fingers frightfully. "Stop it, you're scarring me. I mean what will we do?" Stan looked at the concerned faces that stood around him. "Boys, we're all rich. If Ballcom decides to pull some kind of takeover shit, we let 'em have it?Because it'll just make us richer."
"And then what the fuck will we do?" asked Ray.
"Start a new company and keep making movies," Stan said plain as day. "You see guys, the difference between the Ballsworths of the world and yours truly is, the Ballsworths inherited money. I actually have talent."
"Talent? You're a fucking genius," said Danny.
Iren nodded. "I hate to admit it but you are the best in the business."
Stan turned to Ray. "Well, don't you have some kind of accolade?"
"What's an accolade?" Ray was lost.
"Never mind." Stan pointed at the door. "Let's go watch the guy whose head is supposed to be up my ass take it up the ass."
