Chapter 15: Selling the Script

The flight from Los Angeles to New York took 4 hours and 50 minutes. By the time Link took a taxi from Queens to downtown Manhattan, it was already 6 p.m.

New York City is at a higher latitude than Los Angeles, so by six in the evening, the sky was already dim. Surrounded by countless skyscrapers, the streets below appeared shadowy and dark.

However, New York is one of the most vibrant and densely populated cities in the world, especially in Manhattan. Compared to the sprawling layout of Los Angeles, it was far more lively and bustling.

At dusk, the downtown streets were packed with traffic, car horns blaring constantly. The sidewalks were filled with people of all styles and ethnicities. The number of attractive men and women wasn’t any less than in Los Angeles, the entertainment capital.

Link stopped by a convenience store and spent $8 on a cheap bottle of red wine before heading to Quentin’s apartment.

The apartment on 45th Street was a taller yet more rundown building compared to the West Hollywood youth apartments.

It had more than ten floors, with parts of the exterior walls exposed.

It looked like the kind of building where the six main characters of Friends might have lived.

This was likely Quentin’s old residence from his time working odd jobs in New York.

Before becoming a director, Quentin originally started as an aspiring actor under the James Best Film Company in Los Angeles.

However, every time he attended acting classes, he couldn’t resist criticizing his teachers' methods, insisting they were teaching the wrong way. Eventually, he was kicked out of class.

After spending over two years as a trainee at the film company—without learning much new or landing any roles—he left and moved to Manhattan. There, he took a job at a video store called "The Film Archive," working as a clerk, similar to a librarian.

During his four or five years at the store, he used his position to watch an enormous number of Westerns and Hong Kong films.

Once he had accumulated enough film knowledge, Quentin began writing scripts and making films. Last year, he sold True Romance for $50,000.

Earlier this year, he gained recognition with Reservoir Dogs, officially launching his career as a director.

Link took the elevator to the eighth floor of the apartment complex, turned right, and stopped in front of the third unit. He rang the doorbell.

After about ten seconds, the blue door swung open, revealing Quentin Tarantino’s exaggerated, goofy face and his messy, unkempt hair.

“Oh, my God, Link! You actually came to New York?”

“Of course. When I say I’ll come, I mean it.”

“Well, this is crazy. Come on in.”

As Link stepped inside, he noticed someone else was in the apartment—a woman dressed provocatively, wearing black stockings, her feet propped up on the coffee table. Quentin, too, was in a loose, open robe.

“Quentin, you said on the phone that you were alone. Two people mean extra charges.”

The woman swayed her hips, giving Link an ambiguous, appraising look.

“Debbie, I’ve got things to do. Our date ends here.”

“Such a buzzkill! I’m not giving you a refund.”

She slipped into her high heels and strutted out, hips swaying like a snake.

Link had been in America for four or five months now. He had seen all kinds of messy situations, so he wasn’t surprised by this at all. He didn’t even feel like teasing Quentin about it.

“Sorry for interrupting your date.”

“Haha, no, I was actually writing a script. Yeah, I have this habit—when I write, I like to have a woman around as my audience. I tell her the story first. If she thinks it’s good, I write it down. Then I test it on other women. If they all think it’s good, then I know the idea is solid.”

“Not a bad method. I might try it sometime.”

Link nodded, sat down on the couch, and took Kill Bill from his backpack, handing it to Quentin.

“You flew all the way from Los Angeles just for me to read your script?”

Quentin looked at the cover, clearly surprised.

“Read my new script first. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Make yourself comfortable—watch TV, grab something to eat, whatever you like.”

“I will.”

As Quentin read the script, Link sat for a while, then stood up and walked around.

The couch was too soft, and he worried he might accidentally fall asleep, missing the chance to discuss the script with Quentin.

He made himself a cup of instant coffee in a glass and walked over to the half-open window. The sky outside had completely darkened, and a gentle night breeze blew in. Across the street, many apartment windows were now lit up. In the distance, scattered city lights shimmered, while nearby, he could see straight into the living rooms of the building across from him.

On the sixth floor of the opposite building, a woman was leaning against the windowsill while someone behind her was… up to no good. Her screams, loud enough to hear even from the window, sounded like a pig being slaughtered.

Instinctively, Link turned his head away—good manners dictated that he shouldn't stare.

But then he thought, if the people across the street had chosen to perform such a sacred ritual right in front of a window, didn’t that mean they wanted an audience? Maybe it added to their experience.

Link sipped his slightly sour coffee, watching the scene unfold with a strange sense of amusement.

Unfortunately, human stamina has its limits. After a final grunt, reminiscent of a wild boar slamming into a wall, everything fell silent.

Pfft!  

“Dude, that was pathetic. Too weak!”

“Hahahaha!”

Mocking voices echoed from the floors above and below.

Link returned to the couch and noticed another script on the coffee table. He asked Quentin if he could take a look, and Quentin waved him off. “Go ahead.”

Picking it up, Link was immediately hit with a metaphorical stench—like smelly feet.

The script had no title, but based on the opening character names, dialogue, and scenes, it was clear: this was the script for Pulp Fiction, Quentin’s second film.

The pages were covered in revisions, filled with grammar mistakes and spelling errors. If Link weren’t already deeply familiar with Pulp Fiction, he would have struggled to recognize it as a script at all.

He forced himself to read a few pages—yes, it was Pulp Fiction, but many details were different from the final movie. At best, this draft was only a third of the way complete.

Quentin looked up. “So, what do you think of my script?”

As Link put down the script, Quentin did the same.

"Not bad, it's a great story."

"You can understand what I wrote?"

"Just barely. You're using a multi-narrative structure, right? Each story has its own protagonist, but in the other stories, they become supporting characters—just like all of us. From our own perspective, we are the protagonists, but from others' perspectives, we are just side characters.

You connected the different stories using familiar character relationships, creating a logical loop. That design is really cool. I'm looking forward to your new movie being released."

"You really understood it? Is my story that simple? You just skimmed through it and already grasped the entire plot structure?"

Quentin looked a little frustrated, unable to accept that this was true.

He had spent more than a year writing the story, believing it to be profound and intricate. Once released, he expected many viewers to be utterly confused, only to realize its brilliance after hearing explanations from others. They would then praise it as a masterpiece.

It was like a master illusionist spending years designing an elaborate maze, thinking no one could see through it easily.

But that wasn’t the case. Link casually flipped through the script and, without much effort, clearly laid out the story's structure and logic.

That meant the so-called "illusion maze" wasn't as brilliant as Quentin thought.

After speaking, Link realized he might have said too much—accidentally spoiling the viewing experience and possibly discouraging Quentin.

"Is it really that complicated? Stanley Kubrick's The Killing, which he directed in 1956, is also this type of story. As soon as I finished reading the second part of your script, I could tell you were influenced by Kubrick’s style."

Stanley Kubrick was a renowned American director who entered the industry in the early '50s. He directed multiple Oscar-level films, including The Shining, A Clockwork Orange, and Full Metal Jacket, as well as the never-filmed Eyes Wide Shut.

In The Killing, shot in 1956, he used a multi-narrative approach, telling a racetrack heist story from the perspectives of different characters.

That film had a significant influence on later noir and violent crime films, especially Quentin’s works.

Quentin had even publicly expressed his admiration for Kubrick’s films.

"Alright, you got me. I did use Kubrick’s multi-narrative technique, but my setup is more complex and more interesting than The Killing. Wait until I finish the script, and then you can take another look."

"OK! Now, let’s talk about my script. After reading it, what’s your evaluation?"

Link leaned back on the sofa, crossing his legs.

"Your script is great. While it’s not as complex as mine, the story is still very compelling. The revenge and killing elements, in particular, really suit my taste. Is this the script for your next movie?"

"No, I need money. I'm planning to sell it. If you're interested, I can sell it to you."

"Sell it to me? You flew from Los Angeles to New York just to find me and sell your script?"

"Yes. I saw Reservoir Dogs, and you're the only one who can do justice to this type of script. I don't trust anyone else to handle it properly, so I want to sell it to you."

Link was direct, with no intention of beating around the bush.

Quentin glanced at him, then looked down at the script again, a puzzled expression on his rugged face.

"Link, this script is top-tier. Whether you keep it for yourself or sell it to a major studio, it's a solid project. Yet, you want to sell it to me? You said you're short on money—how much do you need? What do you need it for?"

"To be honest, I’m planning to self-distribute Buried Alive. I’ve already secured theater screenings, but I need a deposit."

"Damn it, Buried Alive again?! After all this time, you still haven’t given up on it? You’re willing to sell a great script just to self-distribute that movie? Why?"

"First, to make money. If Buried Alive gets released, its box office performance won’t be worse than Reservoir Dogs."

"Hmph!"

"Second, I want more people to see Buried Alive, appreciate it, and prove that my judgment is correct. This film shouldn’t be buried."

"You’re a madman!"

"Not really. So, are you interested in buying this script? If not, I have a few others."

Besides Kill Bill and Django Unchained, he had a few scripts he had submitted to studios, though their genres were different, and Quentin might not like them.

"How much are you asking?"

Quentin ran his fingers over the script’s cover.

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"Are you sure you want to sell it? Just to fund a movie nobody is going to watch?"

"Yes, I’m sure."

"How about $50,000? That’s all I have in my account right now."

"Deal!"

Link extended his hand with a smile.

Quentin eyed him suspiciously before hesitantly reaching out to shake his hand.

(End of Chapter)