by Jeff Pollard
Kingsley Pretorius was another one of those people trying to get something out of Bieber: a 40 million dollar sale. But Kingsley is not one to keep his mouth shut.
“It means fifty. Super Bowl fifty,” K says, trying not to sound too condescending, but still a little condescending.”
“Who decided L means fifty?” Bieber scoffs at Kingsley.
“The Romans,” K says.
“Football is a fucking stupid sport anyway,” the Biebs instantly tries to change the subject, “I can't be all, like, fucking watching all those fucking commercials and shit. Right? Basketball is so much better.” There is an immediate echo of agreement from the entourage: football sucks, basketball is awesome, Justin is awesome at basketball, and so on.
“So much for that sale,” Caroline says to Kingsley.
“I told you I'm not good at being a sycophant,” K replies.
“You shouldn't be a sycophant,” Caroline replies. She has no interest in American Football, or really any sport, but was attending the game on behalf of one of her charities, escorting a dying twelve-year-old girl named Madison. The girl's wish was to see the Super Bowl, and the presence of Justin Bieber was supposed to be icing on the cake. But the girl had barely reacted to Bieber, apparently not much of a fan. This briefly upset Justin; he couldn't believe a twelve-year-old girl wasn't a hysterical fan of his.
“He's surrounded by sycophants all the time, so if you tell him 'no,' play hard to get, he'll want what you're selling more,” Caroline explains.
“That or he'll throw a hissy fit,” K replies.
“What was the porn-star's name?” Caroline asks.
“Don't jump right to porn star, you don't call every actor a movie star. She's just a porn actress. And her name is Jaynen Jaymes,” K says, handing Caroline the business card that Jaynen gave K a few minutes ago while Caroline was busy with the make-a-wish section of this luxury box.
“Does the 'y' in James mean that there's another girl named Jaynen James?” Caroline asks.
“Yes. Also, two Jaydens, a bunch of spellings of Jenna, you name it.”
“Wouldn't you want a unique name instead of a slight variation on an established name?”
“I think they define unique differently than you do,” K replies. “Oh good, his monkey got through security.”
“His what?” Caroline turns, finding a monkey wearing a diaper sitting next to Justin.
Kingsley received the tickets to this luxury box from movie producers. They were planning a movie set in space and were trying to convince Kingsley to let them shoot the zero-g scenes on board Excalibur. It wouldn't take any convincing if they were offering full price. They weren't. They wanted to send up five actors for a month and pay only 70 million dollars for it. Five actors would require a full Griffin launch, at a price of more like 140 million dollars. To make up the difference, the studio was willing to give SpacEx some points on the back end of the film. K had hung up on them after that offer, and so, to smooth things over and negotiate a better deal, they threw four luxury box seats at Kingsley. He brought Caroline and she used the other two tickets for Madison and her father.
The film producers were also working on Bieber in trying to get him to commit to a trilogy of movies unrelated to the space film. Bieber was playing hard to get and apparently only agreed to come if the producers sent at least 8 tickets his way. Kingsley had no intention of negotiating the price down for the space movie set on his space station, but did however see a silver lining in the invitation. Justin Bieber had expressed interest in a trip to space, and so K hoped to sell him a seat and get one butt closer to filling up the second Griffin passenger flight.
As the Colts kicked off to the Panthers, Bieber had his face buried in his phone. His monkey, however, was entranced by the thousands of flashes surrounding the field, and thus, appeared to be more interested in the game than his ape master.
“That's why we want to lock down the full trilogy.”
“You don't want to end up like Shia LaBeouf,” a suit says over Bieber's monkey.
“Who?” Bieber asks.
“Exactly.”
“I'm not committing to three shitty fucking movies unless I've seen the first one,” Bieber replies.
“But we want you in the first one,” a suit replies.
“But that's the thing, if you want me for one movie, put me in it, then if I like it, I'll be like, okay, but I can't put the Bieber seal of approval on a trilogy that I don't know anything about.”
“Do you want to read the script?”
“I have people for that,” Bieber replies. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd let me enjoy the game with my monkey.” Bieber takes his monkey and heads to a buffet at the back of the luxury box.
“The Bieber seal of approval,” a suit says mockingly.
“To be fair,” K says, “he is just trying to maximize his leverage.”
“Whatever fucking snot-nose little shit we put in this trilogy is going to be a star. We need a commitment to all three films. If we put him in the first one, and then he decides that it'll cost us forty million to get him in the sequel, then we're fucked and we either pay him a shitload or we have to replace him.”
“Just be straight with him, don't kiss his ass,” K says.
“We've got a long day ahead of us,” another suit sighs.
“What about our little deal?”
“What's your offer now?” K asks.
“We're ready to go up to 80 million.”
“Fine,” K says, “as long as you're only sending up three actors.”
“Look, that's up front. We're prepared to give you 80 million plus five points on the back end. If the movie's a big hit, then you'll get way more than if we just paid you up front.”
“That's nice and all, but I need money now, and I know how Hollywood accounting works.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on,” K says. “I know the tricks. You promise percentage points, a movie does a billion worldwide, and then the writer ends up with nothing because you've somehow managed to make no profit on a billion dollar movie because you've billed out half a billion in advertising to another company you own and so you can say this movie didn't turn a profit, but the conglomerate turned a 500 million dollar profit.”
“That's not us, other companies do that shit, but we don't.”
“Yeah, whatever,” K replies. “My rocket company isn't going to live or die based on the international gross of some movie I have nothing to do with.”
“What if we put you on as Executive producer?
“And I actually have creative input?” K asks.
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“I don't believe you,” K says.
“Oh come on, you would be an invaluable resource when it comes to a movie about space.”
“What's the movie about?” K asks. “Pitch it to me.”
“It's called Race to Mars,” one suit says as another sits on the other side of K in a tag-team effort.
“We open on the surface of Mars.”
“Desolate.”
“Windy.”
“Red.”
“Then we spot a meteor in the sky, coming right for us.”
“It grows bigger and bigger, coming closer.”
“Boom, there's an explosion and fire as it makes a fiery landing right in front of us.”
“We push through the dusty air, toward the spaceship, up one of the landing legs, along the side panel, and then we see...”
“A Chinese flag.”
“Cut to, back on Earth, a news report saying China landed their habitat module on Mars and that they are ahead of us in the race to Mars.
“Wait,” K says, interrupting the producer's fever dream of cinema. “So it's a race to Mars between America and China?”
“Right.”
“How is it a race?”
“Well, they both launch at the same time.”
<
br /> “Almost the same time.”
“China launches first, and then we launch and we're behind but trying to catch up.”
“For six months?” K asks.
“I guess, yeah.”
“Do you guys know how orbital mechanics work?” K asks.
“Not at all.”
“How is it a race? Like, are you saying they are basically side-by-side as they head to Mars and then one lands on Mars like hours ahead of the other. Where's the drama in that? And what does it matter? What are the stakes?”
“Oh right, there's a whole thing about a cold war.”
“It's an economic war of the future.”
“And if China wins, they'll be like the dominant economic force.”
“I don't get it,” K replies.
“Well, what really makes it good is the sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” K asks.
“Yeah, so there's like Chinese agents that sabotage the American spaceship, and they figure this out right after launch. So basically, the whole way to Mars, every time they have to do a burn or hit a button, they know it might cause a malfunction or something because of the sabotage.”
“So there's tons of tension, because every little thing becomes possibly life and death.”
“And then there's a laser.”
“The Chinese ship fires some laser weapon at the American ship and like disrupts their communications, and so they are flying solo with no Houston.”
“I don't see it,” K replies. “The race thing is unrealistic. There's not going to be space lasers involved. Space travel is exciting, it's mind-boggling, why do we have to make it about petty races and nations trying to one-up each other. Go up in space, you won't be thinking like that.”
“But it's life and death stuff.”
“Movie spaceships always explode, and then they still miraculously make it anyway. Gravity, Red Planet, Mission to Mars, you name it, the ships always explode. So what happens in the end. Let met guess. China is winning dirty, and then the Americans miraculously win the race and then we get to see Chase Kennedy, generic attractive main character become the first man on Mars? And then what? Roll credits?”
“Well, he does it for his son.”
“We didn't get to that.”
“Why not do a biopic about me?” K asks. “Start off with me trying to buy a Russian ICBM, starting my own company, rockets blowing up, barely making money. Oh, and you could have me telling the story from my retirement home on Mars.”
“Well, we uh.”
“That's not really a movie.”
“Too big of a story.”
“Movies need to be in-and-out, a couple hours, a few characters, a situation, not this long drawn out thing over years.”
“It could be a realistic space story. Why does every space movie have to be about explosions or aliens?”
“That's what's up in space.”
“Why not like an update on The Right Stuff? That was a good space movie,” K replies.
“Nobody makes movies like that anymore. Three hours, no main character, just a bunch of unrelated stuff.”
“Besides, you can't have a movie about you.”
“Why not?” K asks.
“What's your tragic flaw?”
“Every good main character has to have a tragic flaw.”
“You'd be like Superman.”
“And did you see the Superman movie?”
“Sucked.”
“Superman is boring because he's just a flawless perfect man. Like, maybe that shit was exciting in the '30s, but not anymore. So what's your flaw?”
“What's Iron Man's flaw?” K asks.
“He's uh...”
“I think he's a selfish, arrogant jerk.”
“Very self-centered.”
“That's me!” K insists.
“But, it works because he's a superhero and because he's selfish and doesn't hide his identity, that puts Gwenyth Paltrow in danger.”
“I put Gwenyth Paltrow in danger too!” K replies.
“But you're not a superhero.”
“So, you're cool, you got awesome cars and you get hot girls, and then you launch rockets that work. Where's the tension?”
“Where's the villain?”
“Gotta have an antagonist.”
“I got competitors. It's not so much one villain as just a litany of corruption and shady deals and investors trying to take my company from me.”
“That sounds like a movie about a stock broker, not a space mogul.”
“Where's the space drama?”
“Shit, here comes Bieber and his monkey.”
“Watch how a real salesman works,” K says to the producers, shooing them away. Justin, with his monkey in tow, sits down next to K.
“Hey Justin, how would you like to stay in my space hotel? 40 million for you. If you want to bring a date, I'll knock 5 million off her ticket, we'll call it 75 million. Let me tell you, sex in zero-g can get pretty interesting.”
“Alright, that sounds pretty awesome,” Justin says nonchalantly.
“Is that just you, or would you be taking someone?”
“I'll do it if I can take my monkey,” Justin replies.
“The monkey?” K asks.
“Yeah. I don't go anywhere without her.” The producers stifle a laugh while watching K work his magic.
“Alright,” K says. “Make you a deal. I'll put you down for a ticket. If she is fine on the vomit comet and isn't bothered by zero-g, then she can go. But if not, she stays. Can't have a monkey puking all over the place in zero-g, be quite a mess.”
“Alright, sounds good,” Bieber replies. K sits back, mission accomplished.
“What the hell did you just do?” Caroline whispers.
“Relax,” K whispers back. “There's no way the monkey doesn't freak out in the vomit comet.” “So we got a deal?” K asks, turning back to Bieber.
“Yeah, man, we good.” Bieber replies. “You said forty right? You take bitcoin?”
“Do you have forty million in bitcoin?” K asks, surprised.
“Hundred,” Bieber replies. “It comes in handy if you know what I mean.”
“What about taking a lady up with you?”
“What is this, a space brothel?” Bieber asks. “Actually, that sounds pretty good. I'll think about that.”
At halftime, Kingsley approaches the film producers. “I've been thinking,” K says. “Change the Mars movie, instead of America and China, make it two eccentric billionaires racing each other. You have Justin Bieber, basically as himself, and he brings along his Playboy playmate girlfriend for a honeymoon on Mars. Spoiled, stuck up, drug-addled, coddled billionaire twenty-something who thought it would be cool to go to Mars. Then in the other lane you have a Russian gangster billionaire who bought his own ship. They launch at the same time, they're in a race, and there's a problem with one of their ships, so they meet up on the way to Mars and have to help each other out to survive. But they are the weirdest odd couple ever, can't work together. The Russian bangs the playmate, you know, basically all hell breaks loose. That's the future, man, not China racing America, it's eccentric billionaires racing each other.”
“Well, unless you bring down the price, we can't make any movie,” a suit replies.
“Well, I happen to have a real Russian gangster up there at the moment. I'm selling Bieber a seat. We can have SpacEx crews stand in as the professional pilots and flight engineers, right? So all we really need is to launch a hot girl. Get a porn actress. And while we're making Race to Mars, we shoot a second movie with the porn star and Bieber and whoever else. We call it 'Coming to Mars.' The first ever zero-g porn. If we can get a Bieber porno, that's gotta be worth something right? Bieber and zero-g, that's gonna be the highest grossing porn in history. So we get two films for the price of one, the first legitimate film in zero-g, the first porno in zero-g, and all we have to do is launch Bieber, a por
n actress, a couple more actors maybe, and we've got two movies. Call it five seats, that comes to 200 million, I'll let you have that all for only 100 million, plus I get 25% on the back end. And I have good lawyers, so I'm getting that 25%.”
“Did Bieber agree to do porn?”
“We could hide the cameras.”
“He'll do it if it means he gets a free trip to space for a month with a porn star,” K replies. “Tell him the first space porn will make huge bank, and if it's not only the first space porn, but the first Bieber porn, we're talking about Avatar money, and then throw him some points on it.”
“And the best part is that I'll get Kooz to throw me some extra cash for arranging this all,” K finishes relaying his story of Hollywood wheeling and dealing.
“Did you just become a porn producer?” Caroline asks as the third quarter gets underway.
“Porn-producer slash space-pimp,” K replies nonchalantly. “Now that will look good on my gravestone on Mars.
Chapter 16
In April, SpacEx launches the first of two remaining cargo Griffins to the ISS. Once the first stage has done its job, it turns around, restarts its center engine, fires long enough to send the almost entirely empty first stage on a trajectory back towards the cape. A landing pad had been built the previous year, miles away from launch facilities. It was a circle of pavement not far from the ocean with a road leading to it and not much else. There were a few robotic cameras around the circle, prepared to document the landing.
The first stage, now heading back toward land, turns around again, putting the engines down, facing into the intense heat of a low-speed re-entry. Cold-gas reaction-jets maintain the orientation of the stage, keeping the engines pointed directly into the wind. As the stage falls through 40,000 feet, the center engine restarts. The initial turnaround burn can't precisely send the stage back to the landing site, but can provide a good approximation. So as the stage falls through 35,000 feet and the center engine has just lit up, the guidance computer now has to use that engine to send the Eagle 9 on a path to the landing pad.
