Chapter 13: Making Some Money

"Chris, how much money do you have? I mean, all your savings—how much?"

Back at Little Bird Street Burger, Link found Chris Bauer and asked.

"What for?"

Chris Bauer put down the metal tray and flexed his biceps, checking if they had grown any bigger.

"Forget about your muscles for a second," Link patted him on the shoulder. "Here's the deal—there’s a theater willing to screen my movie in ten halls for seven consecutive days, but they require a deposit. How much money do you have? Lend me all of it. I’ll pay you back within a month, with 10% interest. What do you say? How much do you have?"

"A deposit to screen a movie? How much are we talking about? I don’t know if I have enough."

"Not much—just $30,000."

"Thirty grand?! Are you out of your mind? Look at me—do I look like someone who has $30,000?"

"Then how much do you have?"

"I haven’t spent the money I earned from filming these past couple of days—probably around $250. Do you want to borrow it?"

Chris Bauer blinked, his thick, stubby eyebrows twitching slightly, making his already low attractiveness score drop to below 30.

"Two hundred and fifty dollars? Never mind, just keep it for yourself."

Since he couldn't borrow money from Chris Bauer, Link kept looking for other sources—colleagues from his part-time job, acquaintances from the youth hostel, and even a few fast-food restaurant owners.

No luck.

Most of his coworkers and hostel friends lived paycheck to paycheck. Any money they earned from film sets or side gigs was spent within a day.

In America, especially among young people, saving money was almost unheard of. There were no concerns about marriage, buying a house, or raising children—everyone was a captive of hedonism.

As for the fast-food restaurant owners, Link’s current credibility and repayment ability weren’t enough to convince them to lend him more than $1,000.

Even after offering a guarantee—borrow $1, pay back $10—no one was willing to lend him money. A restaurant owner even suspected him of being a scammer and banned him from working there, fearing potential trouble.

Link could have asked Jerome Preston for a loan.

But aside from the fact that Jerome might not agree, even if he did, it would come at the cost of being looked down upon. He would also owe a major favor.

Besides, borrowing money from private individuals in America wasn’t exactly well received.

After an entire day of fruitless efforts, Link found himself lying in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Even the moon outside seemed blindingly bright.

At around 1 a.m., a desperate idea came to him.

He got out of bed, naked, turned on the desk lamp, grabbed a fresh notebook and a pen, and wrote two words on the cover: *"Kill Bill."*

"Kill Bill" was a 2003 film by Quentin Tarantino, telling the story of a retired female assassin who, on her wedding day, had her entire family massacred by her former boss. Left in a coma for four years, she awakens and embarks on a global journey of revenge.

It was somewhat reminiscent of Liu Zhengfeng, the head of the Hengshan Sect in The Smiling, Proud Wanderer by Jin Yong—except in Liu’s case, after his family was slaughtered, he never got the chance to seek revenge.

"Kill Bill" became an instant hit upon release, spawning two sequels and solidifying itself as one of Quentin Tarantino’s greatest masterpieces—an iconic work of cinematic violence aesthetics.

Link decided to transcribe the screenplay in hopes of exchanging it for some cash from Tarantino himself.

Tarantino’s latest film, Reservoir Dogs, had performed modestly at the box office but was selling well on home video, with 120,000 copies sold this week alone. The total revenue had reached $6.3 million, and it was projected to exceed $10 million.

That meant Tarantino had made a decent amount of money—at least a few hundred thousand dollars.

Link chose Tarantino as his target instead of pitching to major Hollywood studios, independent production companies, or film executives because he'd already tried that route—with zero success. No company had reached out to acquire the rights to any of his screenplays.

He had even submitted a short sci-fi story to a publishing house, and after more than three months, there was still no response.

Selling Tarantino’s own future screenplay to Tarantino himself seemed like a more promising gamble.

From midnight until morning, Link sat at his desk writing. When the sun rose, he stretched his stiff back, found Chris Bauer to help cover for him at work, then returned home for a quick meal of egg noodles before diving back into his script.

"Look at me, Matsumoto. Take a good look at my face. Look into my eyes. Look at my nose. Look at my chin. Look at my mouth. Don’t I look familiar to you? Don’t I remind you of someone you murdered?"

Quentin’s scripts have a common flaw—too much unnecessary dialogue. However, within that excessive dialogue lies a lot of humor and clever callbacks to other parts of the story. Removing it would significantly change the meaning.

Link had watched Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2 multiple times. He had analyzed the movie’s structure and cinematography, but he never memorized the lines.

When transcribing the script, he didn’t try to reproduce the original dialogue word for word. Instead, he followed the story’s main narrative and wrote the dialogue in his own style.

At the same time, he expanded the descriptions of martial arts scenes.

He wasn’t sure if Quentin would be impressed by the revised script, but he had no choice but to try.

Under the glow of the lamp, Link buried himself in writing at his desk. As he penned the story, the female protagonist traveled from Texas to Okinawa, Tokyo, China, and Mexico, eliminating one enemy after another.

Before he could finish writing, his stomach let out a loud growl.

Link lifted his stiff neck and glanced at the clock on his desk. The hour hand pointed between six and seven. The ceiling light had been shining brightly for an entire day, and outside, the morning sun had unknowingly been replaced by the evening sunset.

He put down his pen, rubbed his wrist, and went to the kitchen to cook some spaghetti. From the small fridge, he took out a piece of beef brisket, cut it into small chunks, blanched it, and then pan-seared it in a pot. He chopped two fresh tomatoes, added ginger slices, green onions, black sesame seeds, and seasoning sauce, and let it all simmer. Gurgle, gurgle…  

After finishing his tomato-braised beef spaghetti, Link suddenly remembered something. He headed downstairs to a phone booth and called Quentin to ask if he had time tomorrow—he had an interesting script to show him.

Quentin said he was busy. He was in New York promoting Reservoir Dogs and handling some work-related matters. He’d be back next week and could look at the script then.

But by next week, it would be too late.

Link asked if he could come back tomorrow or the day after.

Quentin, puzzled, asked why he was in such a hurry just to show a script.

Link said it was urgent—literally a matter of life and death—and asked where he was in New York so he could bring the script to him.

Quentin sounded exasperated and suggested that Link could show the script to producer Lawrence Bender instead—it would be the same.

Link considered Quentin’s suggestion.

Lawrence Bender was a solid producer with a good eye, but Kill Bill was tailor-made for Quentin. If it went to Bender first, it might not get the same response.

Besides, time was tight. If Bender reviewed the script, it would take at least a day. If the meeting didn’t go well, there wouldn’t be enough time to reach Quentin afterward.

No room for mistakes.

Link thickened his skin and asked Quentin where he was staying in New York—he wanted to visit and bring a gift.

Quentin, clearly resigned, gave him the address and added that he would be flying to London the day after tomorrow for international promotions. If Link insisted on coming, he had to do it before tomorrow.

“Got it. See you in New York tomorrow,” Link said.

After Quentin hung up, Link called Jerome Preston.

He told Jerome he was gathering money and asked if he could negotiate with the manager of Consolidated Theatres in Burbank. Would they accept a $10,000 deposit upfront?

The idea was to reserve a three-day screening. If the box office numbers after three days were below average, they would reconsider their strategy.

Jerome called him crazy but reluctantly agreed to discuss it with the theater manager. However, he warned Link that he needed to make a final decision before the day after tomorrow regarding the film’s release strategy.

The theater also needed time to prepare for the screening, and he hoped Link would understand.

Link assured him he did and thanked him.

Jerome then mentioned that he had polished Link’s theater marketing proposal and submitted it to AMC Entertainment. If AMC’s headquarters approved, there might be a bonus involved.

He asked if Link wanted to wait before considering self-financing the release.

Link asked if the bonus was guaranteed and, if so, how long it would take to receive it based on AMC’s usual process.

Jerome said there was no guarantee. But if there was a bonus, it would be issued before Christmas.

“Forget it then. Good night to you and your family.”

After hanging up, Link hurried upstairs, ready to continue writing.

At the turn of the third-floor staircase, he suddenly bumped into something soft and bouncy.

A surprised “Ah—” came from the person he had collided with, and the air was instantly filled with a fragrance—a mix of roses and citrus, even clearer than last time.

“Sorry, ma’am. That was my fault—Oh, wait… are you Monica Bellucci?”

Link took a step back, apologizing as he looked at the woman in front of him. She bore a striking resemblance to the Italian actress, nicknamed “The Goddess.”

“You know me?”

The woman clutched her left chest and studied him. Her English wasn’t very fluent.

“I’m Link. I work part-time at a pizza place on Hollywood Boulevard. A few days ago, I delivered pizzas to your film crew. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, right? I saw you in the break area. You’re quite stunning—hard to forget.”

“Thank you.”

“Ms. Bellucci, the security in this area isn’t great. It’s even riskier for beautiful women. If you live alone, try not to go out late at night. Take care.”

Link waved goodbye and took the stairs two steps at a time up to the fourth floor, returning to his small apartment to continue writing.

At around 2 AM, he finished the revised script for Kill Bill.

The final draft was 22 pages long. With narration, dialogue, scene descriptions, and character relationships included, the word count reached roughly 30,000.

Afterward, he drank a glass of hot water, but he wasn’t sleepy at all. His mind was buzzing with energy.

Pacing around his apartment, he eventually sat down again and started writing a new script—Django Unchained.

This was Plan B.

If Quentin didn’t like Kill Bill, he could show him the second script.

And if he didn’t like either?

Emm… Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.  

(End of Chapter)