The offices of Pangu Pictures were practically drowning.
Piles of shipping boxes were blocking the hallways and corners, like a sudden avalanche that threatened to crush the entire building.
Several hastily hired interns were scrambling through the mountain of boxes, dusty and disoriented. Every so often, someone would trip, and frustrated complaints echoed through the office.
"Oh, come on! I came here to learn about producing, not to be a damn moving guy!" yelled one intern wearing glasses.
"Just deal with it, man. These are dreams shipped from all over America," another intern said, completely soaked in sweat as he sat on a box to catch his breath.
These cassette tapes and demo CDs had truly flooded the office, thrusting the Pangu Foundation's name into the Hollywood spotlight.
At first, Lawrence Bender had found it novel, tearing into packages like it was Christmas morning. But his initial joy quickly soured into endless boredom.
"Good grief, this is tape number 347!" Bender ripped off his headphones and groaned, burying his face in his hands. "If I hear one more cheap synth track trying to sound like Hans Zimmer, I'm going to smash the recorder!"
Quentin was even more agitated, pacing the office like a caged animal. Every now and then, he'd grab a tape, shove it into the machine, curse ten seconds later, and eject it violently.
"Garbage! It's all trash! They don't even get surf rock!"
The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Link, however, stayed out of the chaos. He knew that this needle-in-a-haystack process couldn't be rushed. His focus was on a different front.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
On the other end, director Chuck Russell's voice sounded rough and tired.
"I know who you are, the young guy who's been shaking up Hollywood lately. Go ahead, what do you want?"
"I'd like to offer you a directing project," Link said, getting straight to the point. "It's a story about a weak man who finds a green mask that lets him do anything he wants."
"Sounds like a B-grade horror flick," Chuck scoffed.
"It used to be," Link admitted frankly, then his tone sharpened. "But in my version, it's a live-action cartoon—and it's going to require the absolute best visual effects Hollywood has to offer."
"Visual effects?"
"That's right." A hint of temptation entered Link's voice.
He tried to sell the vision to the famous director. "I've studied your work—the puppet killer in Nightmare on Elm Street 3, the monster in The Blob. I know you've always been looking for a breakthrough. But Chuck, have you ever considered what you could do if your imagination wasn't limited by rubber models and wires?"
"Oh? And how do you plan to pull that off?" Chuck asked, sounding skeptical.
"Pangu Pictures is actively pursuing a partnership with a top-tier special effects house like Industrial Light & Magic (ILM)," Link stated with confidence. "We plan to use their latest Computer Graphics (CG) technology extensively in this film. We're going to make people on screen pop their eyeballs out and drop their jaws—imagination beyond physics."
There was silence on the line for a few seconds, followed by a calm, pointed question: "ILM doesn't come cheap. Can Pangu afford them?"
Link chuckled. "We won't be using a traditional salary model. We'll attract them with a 'Box Office Share + Future Project Collaboration' deal. Chuck, imagine: your vision, ILM's tech, a completely new style of filmmaking."
Russell's breathing noticeably quickened.
"What about the script?" Chuck's voice was already laced with urgency.
"It's still being polished," Link smoothly replied. "But I'll send you the audition tapes for Jim Carrey and Cameron Diaz. Once you see them, you'll understand exactly what we're creating."
"Fine!" Chuck Russell practically blurted out. "Send those tapes over right away!"
Hanging up the phone, a smile crossed Link's face. He knew the captain for his second warship was almost secured.
Just then, a cry of pure, wild excitement exploded from the other side of the office.
"This is it!!!"
Link and Bender snapped their heads up. Quentin was holding a plain, run-of-the-mill TDK cassette tape above his head like a trophy. There was no name on the casing, just a few words scrawled in marker: Miserlou.
"What's that piece of junk?" Bender frowned.
"Shut up and listen!" Quentin slammed the tape into the recorder.
The next second, the wild sound of an electric guitar blasted out. The melody was both vintage and deadly, hitting you like a tidal wave and slicing the air like a razor's edge.
An intern instinctively hummed along for a moment, but was immediately shut up by a fierce glare from Quentin. Bender frowned, shaking his head dismissively at first, but his expression slowly morphed from annoyance to surprise.
Quentin, meanwhile, was dancing like a maniac in the middle of the office, his eyes shining.
"That rhythm... Oh my God, that rhythm practically grew out of the Pulp Fiction script itself!"
Link was also stunned. The music was dangerous, sexy, and utterly irreverent—it was the very blood of the screenplay.
"Check! Check who sent that in!" Bender practically leaped onto the pile of packages.
A few minutes later, an intern ran over, clutching a crumpled shipping label, yelling excitedly, "Found it! The sender... it says Dick Dale!"
"Dick Dale?" Bender looked confused. "Never heard of him. The address is... a Pizza Hut in Los Angeles?"
Link's pupils contracted sharply at that moment.
Dick Dale!
The King of Surf Rock. A forgotten legend, now reduced to working at a pizza place.
And he had personally delivered the music right to Pangu Pictures' front door.
Link held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest.