Link knew that the quality of the soundtrack would directly determine Pulp Fiction's fate at Cannes.
So, he didn't have time to celebrate. He had to rush the film's final production before the festival selection deadline.
Bender's car flew through the streets of Los Angeles, finally stopping in front of a Pizza Hut.
The oily aroma of pizza, mixed with the heat of the afternoon sun, wafted out from the door.
They opened the door and walked inside.
It was 3:00 PM, not exactly prime dining time, so the place was pretty quiet.
A white-haired man, slightly hunched over, was expertly boxing up delivery pizzas.
The movement was practiced, numb, but in his eyes lingered a remnant of pride that refused to be completely extinguished—
As if that wasn't pizza dough, but guitar strings.
This was Dick Dale.
The "King of Surf Rock," the man who once made the Pacific Ocean tremble with an electric guitar.
Link and Bender sat in a corner and didn't interrupt.
Only when Dale took off his ridiculous red hat and prepared to take a break did Link get up and walk over.
"Mr. Dale."
The old man looked up, confused.
Link's voice was calm, yet sounded like he was narrating a legend:
"1962, the Rendezvous Ballroom in California. The night you played 'Misirlou,' everyone forgot who they were.
Your music wasn't just notes; it was the tide, the sunshine, the pulse of youth."
The water cup in Dale's hand trembled slightly.
It had been too long since anyone had talked to him that way. People only knew him as the old guy who delivered pizza—
No one remembered that he used to be the King of Rock.
Link continued: "I listened to the cassette you sent over three times. Out of hundreds of demos, it was the only voice that was still alive."
He pulled out a contract and handed it over: "I didn't come here to buy the rights to one song.
I came to ask you, as Music Supervisor, to create a soundtrack for Pulp Fiction that will be remembered by history.
I want the world to hear those melodies and remember your name again."
Dick Dale stared at the contract, his throat catching.
In that moment, he seemed to hear the sound of guitar strings being plucked again—
Not on a stage, but in the heart of destiny.
After a long silence, he spoke hoarsely: "I'll need a good studio, and a couple of my old guys."
Link smiled faintly: "The return of the King, of course, requires the King's band."
When Dale's signature landed on the paper, the reflection of the neon light grazed the line of writing,
Like a lamp that had been dormant for years, now relit.
---
Night fell, and the city lights began to glow, one by one.
Link sat in the back of the car, eyes closed, the melody of "Misirlou" still echoing in his ears.
It was the sound of a revival, and the prelude to a storm.
"Li," Bender asked quietly, gripping the steering wheel, "Cannes is less than a month away. Are you sure you want to bet on another film right now?"
Link looked out the window. Streetlights flashed across his face, the light and shadow stark.
"If Cannes goes well, we can use that momentum to launch the next battleship."
The car turned into Santa Monica and stopped in front of an unassuming building.
Chuck Russell's private studio.
Inside, the TV screen was frozen on Jim Carrey's face, exaggerated to the point of being almost distorted.
Chuck was slumped on the couch, his fingers pressed tightly on the remote, as if confirming a hallucination.
When Link and Bender walked in, his voice was almost a dream: "That's not acting… that's human special effects."
Link smiled: "I hear you want to redefine 'fantasy.'"
Chuck looked up, his eyes burning: "How far can this CG technology you mentioned really go?"
"As far as you need."
Link answered calmly, "As long as your imagination is crazy enough, we can make it real."
In a few short seconds, Chuck's expression shifted from doubt to obsession.
He took a deep breath, his voice trembling: "I need complete creative freedom."
"Of course." Link held out his hand, his gaze certain.
"I'm not looking for a craftsman. I'm looking for a magician who can mutually fuel Jim Carrey's madness."
Chuck stared at him, then suddenly laughed.
They shook hands.
In that moment, it felt like sparks flew in the air.
A familiar vibration came from his palm.
Link's awareness wavered slightly, and the pale blue light screen quietly appeared before his eyes.
> [User: Link]
> [Influence Index: 4000 (+500)]
> [Note: The Mask project is confirmed. Panggu Pictures' next miracle has officially launched.]
The screen faded.
Link was silent for a moment, his hand still suspended in the air.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen this dashboard, but every appearance felt like a silent reminder of fate—
Every move he made was actively rewriting the film history of this era.
Bender looked at him cautiously: "Li? You okay?"
Link snapped back, let out a soft breath, and smiled.
"I'm fine," he said quietly. "I just suddenly feel like… the wind is starting to warm up."
---
Deep in the night, the car drove along the coastal boulevard in Los Angeles.
The city lights flowed in his eyes, like countless lamps being relit.
Link said softly:
"Next stop—Cannes."
His gaze was resolute, as if looking out at that distant French Riviera.
That's where their coronation would take place.