vintage cars. The bigger and more ostentatious, the better. He wanted to take up lanes, parking spots, entire neighborhoods with the girth of his automobiles. And now the corpulent sack of shit had commandeered Boyd's spot.
Boyd parked in the handicapped spot, got out, and carefully ran a hand through his head of chest hair before heading into the thirty-two story wedge of steel.
The Italian furniture in Boyd's thirty-second-floor corner office had such sharp lines Boyd ran the danger of disembowelling himself every time he slid his chair up to his desk. Don DeBono had unfortunately managed to take a seat behind Boyd's desk without injury.
DeBono was thumbing intently through a TV Guide as Boyd came in, no doubt reading every single listing and committing it to memory. DeBono was known for his encyclopedic knowledge of television, his utter devotion to the medium. Not one single iota of trivia escaped his attention. In his own mind, DeBono had programmed every network since he was old enough to spell TV.
DeBono knew what was up against Bonanza on every night of itsfourteen-year run. He could tell you the ratings for each episode of Mannix. He had even memorized Lucy Ricardo's license number.
But it paid off. Ten years ago, when DeBono was a twenty-year-old NYU student, he sent UBC president Guy Chapin a letter. DeBono tore him apart for concocting an insipid primetime schedule and told him how Chapin should have done it, assuming Chapin had any imagination at all.
Fact was, Chapin didn't. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he took DeBono's suggestions, and propelled the third-place network into first. Don DeBono became a junior program executive overnight, stepping right over another, capable executive named Boyd Hartnell, who had been strenuously working his way up the ladder for years. Boyd had even married Chapin's homely daughter in his quest for network glory.
Boyd watched with amazement and loathing as the little shit wormed his way up whilehis own career reached an inertia matched only by his sex life. Boyd dumped Chapin's hag daughter and took the first studio job he could find.
Now Boyd ran Pinnacle, and wonderboy DeBono made enough money to keep his complete collection of TV Guides in a massive mahogany display case. As if they were copies of the Gutenberg Bible.
"Make yourself at home," Boyd said. "Fuck my secretary, while you're at it."
DeBono glanced up from the TV Guide and gave Boyd a wicked grin. "I would, but I've decided to fuck you instead."
"Am I going to like it?"
"Do I care?" DeBono tossed the TV Guide onto a pile of scripts and swivelled around in the chair to face Boyd, who was sauntering up to admire his unobstructed view of the valley.
"Have you seen the demographics on Miss Agatha?"
"You came all the way down here to ask me that?"
"It was a rhetorical question, butthead," DeBono said. "That is butt hair on your
head, isn't it? Or did Dr. Desi harvest your arm pits?"
The muscles in Boyd's cheeks tightened. Maybe if he gritted his teeth, he wouldn't throw the guy out the window. He turned very slowly to face DeBono.
''The show is a hit. That's all that's important."
"The demographics skew so fucking old, the entire audience of the show could be dead by next season," DeBono said. "DBC's Red Highway is snagging everyone who isn't on social security yet."
"Red Highway is in forty-eighth place," Boyd said.
"Last season it was seventieth," DeBono replied. "You see a trend here? Of course you don't. That's why you're here and I'm running the network. The right show, with the right demographics, can take Sunday night."
"We are already taking the night."
"We are sitting ducks." DeBono got up from behind the desk. "So we're going to youthify Miss Agatha. She's going to get a niece who wears black leather, drives a sports car, and can do more Ninja shit than Steven Seagal."
Boyd couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had just saved Esther's ass, not to mention his own, rescued the network
Boyd parked in the handicapped spot, got out, and carefully ran a hand through his head of chest hair before heading into the thirty-two story wedge of steel.
The Italian furniture in Boyd's thirty-second-floor corner office had such sharp lines Boyd ran the danger of disembowelling himself every time he slid his chair up to his desk. Don DeBono had unfortunately managed to take a seat behind Boyd's desk without injury.
DeBono was thumbing intently through a TV Guide as Boyd came in, no doubt reading every single listing and committing it to memory. DeBono was known for his encyclopedic knowledge of television, his utter devotion to the medium. Not one single iota of trivia escaped his attention. In his own mind, DeBono had programmed every network since he was old enough to spell TV.
DeBono knew what was up against Bonanza on every night of itsfourteen-year run. He could tell you the ratings for each episode of Mannix. He had even memorized Lucy Ricardo's license number.
But it paid off. Ten years ago, when DeBono was a twenty-year-old NYU student, he sent UBC president Guy Chapin a letter. DeBono tore him apart for concocting an insipid primetime schedule and told him how Chapin should have done it, assuming Chapin had any imagination at all.
Fact was, Chapin didn't. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he took DeBono's suggestions, and propelled the third-place network into first. Don DeBono became a junior program executive overnight, stepping right over another, capable executive named Boyd Hartnell, who had been strenuously working his way up the ladder for years. Boyd had even married Chapin's homely daughter in his quest for network glory.
Boyd watched with amazement and loathing as the little shit wormed his way up whilehis own career reached an inertia matched only by his sex life. Boyd dumped Chapin's hag daughter and took the first studio job he could find.
Now Boyd ran Pinnacle, and wonderboy DeBono made enough money to keep his complete collection of TV Guides in a massive mahogany display case. As if they were copies of the Gutenberg Bible.
"Make yourself at home," Boyd said. "Fuck my secretary, while you're at it."
DeBono glanced up from the TV Guide and gave Boyd a wicked grin. "I would, but I've decided to fuck you instead."
"Am I going to like it?"
"Do I care?" DeBono tossed the TV Guide onto a pile of scripts and swivelled around in the chair to face Boyd, who was sauntering up to admire his unobstructed view of the valley.
"Have you seen the demographics on Miss Agatha?"
"You came all the way down here to ask me that?"
"It was a rhetorical question, butthead," DeBono said. "That is butt hair on your
head, isn't it? Or did Dr. Desi harvest your arm pits?"
The muscles in Boyd's cheeks tightened. Maybe if he gritted his teeth, he wouldn't throw the guy out the window. He turned very slowly to face DeBono.
''The show is a hit. That's all that's important."
"The demographics skew so fucking old, the entire audience of the show could be dead by next season," DeBono said. "DBC's Red Highway is snagging everyone who isn't on social security yet."
"Red Highway is in forty-eighth place," Boyd said.
"Last season it was seventieth," DeBono replied. "You see a trend here? Of course you don't. That's why you're here and I'm running the network. The right show, with the right demographics, can take Sunday night."
"We are already taking the night."
"We are sitting ducks." DeBono got up from behind the desk. "So we're going to youthify Miss Agatha. She's going to get a niece who wears black leather, drives a sports car, and can do more Ninja shit than Steven Seagal."
Boyd couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had just saved Esther's ass, not to mention his own, rescued the network
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