[ WP ] You 're Zack Snyder at the next Warner Bros meeting .

I sit at the desk and I drum my fingers. The desk is long and polished. Mahogany. It ’ s beautiful. 
 
 The blinds are half drawn, and the weak sunlight can only light up half my face. The thermostat records the temperature at nearly 70 degrees, but it feels colder than any of the early morning shoots from the past two years. I shiver. I inhale deeply. 
 
 The door swings open. It startles me like the butt of a gun against my neck. I forget how to breathe out as three pairs of feet shuffle across the room. I cough and stumble. I do not stand up. There is no shaking of hands, no pleasantries. This is purely business. 
 
 The first mouth opens. Words pour out, sounding about figures: box office receipts, weekend previews, promotional costs. They proclaim the cot death of a suckling billion dollar franchise. 
 
 Projected gross someone says. Overseas markets. “ China will not save us ” a voice says. 
 
 I realise it ’ s my own. I realise I don ’ t care. 
 
 It ’ s impossible to clearly see their faces because of the blinds – those fucking blinds. They mutter on indistinctly, unperturbed. 
 
 “ We took a chance on Sucker Punch. We took a chance on Watchman- “ 
 
 “ Watchmen ” I correct. 
 
 “ This was not meant to be a chance. This was supposed to be a hit. A licence to print money. ” 
 
 I feel for these two piece suits sometimes. It ’ s all so simple to them, they only care about money. Something easily quantifiable, that can be measured, weighed. This was about more than that for me. 
 
 “ Someone is going to fall on their sword. The big men up top are not happy ” a suit says. 
 
 I let the impression of a smile glide across my face. The consternation in the chorus of their voices grows. I don ’ t care. I got to tell my story, good versus evil, night versus day, fuck the lot of them. 
 
 “ Show him ” a gruff voice says. Not one of the suits. It seems to come from an intercom, but there are no speakers in the room. 
 
 An image is projected onto the wall. It looks like- Good God, is that Goyer? He ’ s tied to a chair, his face is smashed in, blood dripping down his chin, his eyes swollen shut. Quite an improvement to be honest. The slide changes. Poor Chris Terrio is next, his throat cut. Chris, I hardly knew ye. Again the image changes. Someone is trying to hose down the front of a train. There ’ s a lot of blood and guts, nothing recognisable. 
 
 “ Who ’ s that? ” I ask. 
 
 “ That genius is the fuckwit that edited the fucking Doomsday trailer ” the same gruff voice answers. 
 
 “ You done yet? ” I ask. I sit back nonchalantly. I take my phone out just to piss them off. 
 
 “ Go fuck yourself Zach ” the gruff voice growls. “ You ’ re finished, you ’ ll never work again. You ’ re a joke ”. 
 
 I ’ m done here. I undo my shirt ’ s top button. The three suits eyeball me. I smile properly now. 
 
 “ You ’ ve ruined us jackass. The movie stinks. Do us all a favour and fuck off back to whatever rock you crawled out from ” 
 
 I brandish it – the secret weapon I keep around my neck at all times. It glows brightly, illuminating the room in a shining emerald haze. I see three petrified faces. So young. 
 
 “ But that shit back in under your shirt ” the voice orders. But there ’ s a note of desperation there. Something pleading. 
 
 Under the green light all three suits begin to age visibly. At first they don ’ t realise what ’ s happening. Their skin dries and sags. Their hair greys and sheds. Great purple varicose veins appear around their previously well maintained bodies. And then they realise all the stories are true, all the Hollywood legends and old wives tales about my power. They gaze in astonishment. The voice screams, calling me an inhuman monster, an immoral son of a bitch. This meeting has wasted enough of my time. The suits look at their hands in dismay, surveying the damage. I stand to leave. 
 
 “ I ’ ll need 250 million by Monday. Next week I ’ m adapting Ronin. ” 

