[Amir shows up to a restaurant wearing a tacky palm tree shirt and carrying a gold bag full of clubs. Jake is waiting inside.]
AMIR: Sorry! Couldn't find a meter spot to save my life! I had to valet like a chumpwad.
JAKE: There is no valet. Why are you wearing that?
AMIR: [jutting his golf bag out] Golf clubs!
JAKE: Do you think I said "What are you wearing"? I said "Why".
AMIR: I'm trying to be relatable, dimwit. You know, this is actually a pretty big problem you have: You often reject my shit at the face without really trying to understand and grasp the subtle nuance behind it. Zoom out!
JAKE: We're meeting with high-power producers, trying to get them to give us money to fund the insane script that you wrote. The least you can do is act like a professional.
AMIR: [imitating Christian Bale] Are you professional?
JAKE: ...Stop with the Christian Bale shit.
AMIR: Sorry!
JAKE: It happened--
AMIR: I just learned about it.
[The two producers, later referred to as Lyle and Blanche, show up. Lyle shakes hands with Amir.]
LYLE: Blumenfeld! Didn't know you golfed. Good man! What's your handicap?
AMIR: I'm actually dyslexic.
[Lyle laughs.]
BLANCHE: I like this kid.
LYLE: [pointing to the table] Yeah, we're back here...
AMIR: It's pretty bad, actually.
[At the table, Jake pitches the show.]
JAKE: So... yes, it's low-concept, but what's exciting is developing the characters over time.
BLANCHE: Well. I'm bored.
AMIR: So am I. Blanche, Lyle, I apologize for my... insanely boring colleague. He doesn't realize that from him, even a little bit is too much.
BLANCHE: Agreed.
AMIR: But pass me the conch. [holding up his hand, which is in an actual conch] Allow me to beat your eardrums for just a minute here...
LYLE: Please. Your friend is tedious.
JAKE: Enough, Lyle.
AMIR: My father was a quiet man. Proud. Growing up, we moved... a lot. I actually caught him one early, early morning, packing up our things -- plates, cups and whatnot -- and I told him "Papa..." [breaking from his story] Chinese fire drill! Chinese fire drill!
JAKE: You--
[Amir, Lyle and Blanche all get up and begin running around the table and laughing. Amir chases the other two.]
AMIR: I'm gonna get ya! I'm gonna get ya!
[They go to sit back down. Lyle smacks Jake in the head.]
JAKE: Ow, Lyle.
BLANCHE: I feel young again!
LYLE: We're prepared to write you a check, right now, for fifty thousand dollars.
AMIR: This brunch is over. I'm sorry, but we reject your offer. It's not only a drop in the bucket, but it's a slap in the face. Lyle, you've underplayed your hand!
LYLE: Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you knew how to play hardball. Can't blame an old exec for trying!
AMIR: But you can teach one new tricks.
[Lyle and Blanche laugh at length.]
JAKE: It wasn't that good.
BLANCHE: A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, cash in hand. All we want is to approve the outline.
[Blanche hands a duffel bag to Amir, who immediately gives it to Jake.]
AMIR: Jake. Count this cash.
[Jake opens up the bag. It is full of bills.]
AMIR: Though I'll tell you right now we're not accepting it, because we want complete creative control, Lyle!
[Amir lights a match and throws it into the bag. Jake puts it out with a wad of bills.]
AMIR: We want full fucking autonomy, Blanche.
[Amir throws another match, which Jake puts out.]
JAKE: Stop doing that.
LYLE: That's absurd. There has to be some oversight!
AMIR: The only oversight here is you, Lyle. As in: I'm over the sight... of your jowly face. [to Blanche] Of your... old pussy. I bid you guys namaste, I bid you guys adieu, I bid you all arrive-door-cheese. Jake, hand them the blood money back, please.
LYLE: Keep it. Good luck, Amir. Oh, and Jake?
JAKE: Yeah?
LYLE: You really fucking suck.
AMIR: Oh, and Blanche?
[Amir and Blanche both abruptly stand up, looking intensely into each other's eyes. They lean in slowly for a kiss.]