INTRO JAKE: Hey, you're watching Jake and Amir. AMIR: This town will eat you alive! JAKE: Fine. AMIR: I'm serious! [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.] AMIR: No... you misread this. [Amir stands up straight and leaves.] AMIR: Valet! JAKE: Your car was stolen. AMIR: Right. END