Capítulo 124: Mais uma rodada de luta

North Hollywood, Valley Shooting Range.

Martin, wearing earplugs and with his AR rifle pressed against his shoulder, kept his eyes fixed on the moving targets. He squeezed the trigger rhythmically; bullet after bullet struck home, and not a single shot missed.

As the gunfire ceased, Bruce checked the electronic display and remarked, "Perfect score, man. Your skills have improved."

Antonio approached, lugging an old Winchester rifle. He glanced at the display and shook his head. "Martin, your performance is just average."

Martin set his rifle down and shrugged. "Let's see what you’ve got."

Antonio stood before the firing line, as steady as a mountain of flesh. He raised the vintage rifle and fired repeatedly at the moving targets. With every shot, his entire body rippled with fat, as if it were absorbing all the recoil.

Despite being as round as a ball, Antonio’s hand speed put many a single youth to shame. He reloaded mid-session, and by the time he finished his ten rounds, even his worst shot landed in the eight-ring.

Bruce looked on in surprise. "I never would have guessed; turns out you’re the civilized one."

Martin hadn't expected his chubby landlord to be so fast and accurate.

Antonio removed his earplugs and began to pant heavily. The two massive mounds on his chest heaved violently; he looked as if he might drop dead on the spot if he couldn't catch his breath.

"Do you need a doctor?" Martin asked.

Antonio leaned against a nearby pillar and shook his head. It took him a full half-minute to speak. "Too fat. Strenuous activities like shooting are a huge burden."

Martin joked, "It’s a good thing you don't have a pretty wife."

Bruce chimed in, "Antonio, whatever you do, don't get a wife. Martin’s scumbag father is a master at seducing neighbors' wives. You think he wouldn't go for yours?"

Martin gave Bruce the finger.

As Antonio’s breathing gradually steadied, he patted his belly, which was larger than a basketball. "My little brother has shrunk so much I can't even see it anymore, so why would I need a wife?" He was a man who understood the reality of life. "I have millions of dollars in assets; why would I get a wife? To help me spend my money?"

"You've reached enlightenment," Martin said, not daring to let him shoot anymore. "Come on, let's go take a break."

As they walked, he added, "Your shooting is impressive."

Antonio jiggled his chest. "The best civilian sharpshooters are all fat guys."

Just as they reached the lounge, Mene arrived. He looked embarrassed. "I had an audition; I'm late."

Martin pulled out a chair and sat down. "The one Craven recommended?"

"Yeah, *Land of the Dead*," Mene said, his mouth stretching wide as he curled his hands into claws. "Playing a zombie with a lot of personality. With Director Craven’s recommendation, and since the casting director, Eva, is a 55-year-old woman..."

With Antonio present, he felt awkward speaking plainly. But Martin and Bruce understood perfectly. Mene was truly a slayer of middle-aged and elderly women.

Antonio looked Mene over, then skillfully pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "Doctor Hyena, specialist in proctology. If you need him, go quickly, don't delay."

Seeing Mene look dazed, he added, "I've been in North Hollywood for years; I’ve seen quite a few clients with rectal prolapse."

Mene was speechless. He intended to throw it away, but after a moment's thought, he kept it—what if he needed it someday?

Before the Saturn Awards ceremony, he had heard Hart and Carrington mention that there was a broke, shiftless guy in Atlanta who had latched onto a wealthy woman with a penchant for "back-door" activities and made a fortune. If such a woman were to come looking for him, it wouldn't be entirely out of the question.

Someone walked past, a young man in his twenties. He saw Martin and lingered on his face for a few seconds before saying, "Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but are you a celebrity?"

Martin smiled at him. "Hello."

The young man immediately said, "You are..." He couldn't recall Martin’s name, but remembered, "I saw you in a photo with Hugh Jackman at the Saturn Awards. You look just as handsome in person as you do in the picture."

Mene realized the man didn't remember Martin himself, but rather the fact that Martin had posed with Hugh Jackman at the Saturn Awards. He quickly introduced him: "My boss is Martin Davis, winner of the Saturn Award for Best Young Actor, a Hollywood supernova."

The young man pulled out his phone. "Can we take a picture?"

Martin didn't refuse, letting Bruce take the photo.

After the man left, Antonio was surprised. "You have fans?"

Martin replied cockily, "I did win a big award."

Antonio stood up shakily. "Come on, let's go back. We’ll take a photo in front of the apartment. When you become a big star, I’ll hang the photo right in the center of the lobby. Then I’ll rent the apartments specifically to actors, and the rent will be double what it is now!"

Martin laughed. "You’ll have to give me a cut."

Back at the apartment, Martin took a specific photo with Antonio. Seeing the time, he drove to the Warner Bros. studio.

After making a call and waiting a while, Louise emerged from the studio entrance. Once she was in the passenger seat, Martin saw her brow was furrowed. He reached out a finger to slowly smooth it and asked, "Something troubling you?"

"Let’s find a place for a drink first," Louise said, buckling her seatbelt. "I don't feel very good."

Martin started the car and headed toward North Hollywood. "Work?"

Louise didn't want to talk about it, instead asking once more, "If I went bankrupt, would you kick me to the curb?"

"Of course not," Martin said. "I’m a good person with a conscience."

Louise shook her head. "You? A conscience?" She stopped dwelling on her worries. "Come on, let’s go find a place to drink."

Martin caught a faint whiff of alcohol on her. "You drank at lunch? Let's skip the alcohol; I'll take you for something special."

He chose a Chinese restaurant they occasionally visited, ordering localized dishes, fearing Louise wouldn't take to the authentic ones.

They chatted while they ate. Louise asked, "Did you reach an agreement on the project with Craven?"

Martin used serving chopsticks to put food on her plate. "We're missing an investor..."

Louise misunderstood. "The funding for my last project is tied up heavily in *Alexander*."

Martin said, "That's not what I meant. I wanted to ask, how feasible is it to bring in capital from Atlanta?"

This reminded Louise. "Of course it's feasible."

"How about this? I’ll put together a new pool," she said, thinking of the Gray Company in Atlanta. "Including that tramp Kelly, and your backers, we can put together a new project."

She pondered for a moment. "My capital and Kelly's aren't exactly flush; the main investment will still need to come from your support group. This isn't like *Zombie Gigolo*; I guarantee we can sign a distribution profit-sharing agreement, which makes it easier to balance the books."

Martin couldn't help but laugh. "I’ve realized something: if you don't have someone backing you—or rather, someone underneath you—it’s too hard to climb the ladder."

"Tonight, I'll be the one on top, pinning you down!" Louise asserted, then added, "Are you sure you can pull in the funding on your end?"

Martin nodded. "I’ve been in touch with Atlanta once; it shouldn't be a problem." He looked at Louise affectionately. "You lush, I’ve realized you’re the one who treats me best."

Louise scoffed and delivered a crushing truth: "Since *Scream*, none of the works produced or directed by Wes Craven have lost money."

Martin said, "Once the crew is assembled, I’m going to throw a party with more flair."

After dinner, they went to the Malibu beach to look at the night view for a while. Upon returning to the apartment building, high-pitched singing drifted through the air.

Antonio shifted his massive body to the second-floor hallway and roared, "Martin Davis, my Friendship Gun says it’s going to strike you from the friend list!"

...

Under the cover of night, in Venice, a small seaside town in Los Angeles, Kim Kardashian parked her car in front of a hotel, made a call, and took the elevator to the 6th floor.

The door opened and Bruce waved her in. After she entered and locked the door, he looked at her face and asked, "What happened?"

Kim looked pitiful. "This afternoon, because of some clothes, Paris threw them at me, and my face got hit by a hanger."

Bruce saw right through her. "Did she fulfill her promise from Australia?"

Kim’s face turned ugly. Although she had been disappointed in Paris back in Brisbane, she had still held onto a sliver of hope. Since returning to Los Angeles, Paris hadn't said a word about introducing her into the high-society circle.

Kim’s eyes welled with tears. "Everything is a mess now. I don't know what to do..."

Bruce said, "It’s simple. Find a time when Paris is feeling down, encourage her to go to a bar and drink. With your skills, it shouldn't be hard to get her completely drunk. Argue with her a bit, let her drive herself home, and the rest is simple."

Kim asked, "And then I step in, do interviews with reporters, and defend her?"

Bruce laughed. "Haven't you already said a few things for Paris in front of the media recently?"

"I understand." Kim turned around, leaned against the wall, and arched her back.

A story between an ambitious, big-bottomed woman and a deviant that cannot be described.

Nearly an hour later, Kim left the room, returned to her car, opened her bag, and took out a digital voice recorder. A smile played on her lips as she pressed the play button.

But all that came out was static; nothing could be heard.

"Is the recorder broken?" Kim slapped it hard several times, but it remained the same. Furious, she tossed it onto the passenger seat.

On the way back, Paris called, demanding Kim return immediately to drive her out for drinks. The opportunity didn't even need to be searched for—it was always there.

Kim decided to do it tonight.

After picking up Paris, Kim drove to a familiar bar. Using calculated intent against Paris's lack of defense, it didn't take much effort to get Paris, who was in the most dissolute phase of her life, completely hammered.

Kim then used a trivial matter to provoke Paris, who lashed out on the spot, telling her to get lost several times.

Just like that, Kim left the bar.

Paris drove off alone, intending to return to her place. She drove unsteadily, weaving back and forth. Kim, sitting in a taxi she had hailed, followed for a while, surprised that the usual patrol cars were nowhere to be found.

She took out the phone she had prepared long ago and dialed 911. "Hello... I'm on the middle stretch of Sunset Boulevard. I’ve spotted someone driving dangerously. The license plate number is..."

A few minutes later, a patrol car with flashing lights appeared, ordering Paris to pull over for an inspection.

Not only did she not stop, but she accelerated, until the LAPD took measures several times to force her to a halt.

Then came the routine inspection and the sobriety test. Paris couldn't walk a straight line, let alone stand up straight with the alcohol hitting her system.

Paparazzi soon gathered, filming the entire incident.

Kim figured Paris would at least have her license suspended, and when that happened, she would find another way to make her drive drunk again...