Chapter 60: Farewell, Marcel
The noise of New York's JFK Airport was shut out by thick glass walls, yet it did nothing to lift the heavy sadness hanging over the group.
Ross's eyes were red and swollen, his gaze fixed on the taxiing plane that would soon carry Marcel to sunny California, slumped in his seat like he'd lost his best friend.
Yes, Ross had finally found Marcel a new home. The constant aggression and destruction caused by the monkey's hormones had exhausted him; though it hurt, he knew keeping Marcel would only lead to more problems.
"He'll be fine, Ross," Chandler tried. "San Diego Zoo has the best primate care—sun, beaches, other monkeys..."
Joey added, "Right, Ross. They'll take great care of him, and you can fly out anytime to visit."
Bruce waved at the plane and murmured, "Bye, little guy—hope you're happy out there!"
Though Bruce had grown fond of the mischievous monkey too, he knew Marcel's departure was ultimately a relief for Ross—and everyone else.
Hormone-driven Marcel had started with scaring Melissa; the damage list went on from there: Rachel's brand-new designer silk blouse shredded, Monica's beloved mug collection destroyed...
Outside, Manhattan's skyline swept past as the car crawled through traffic.
"Where are we on Inglourious Basterds?" Bruce asked Joey in the passenger seat.
"Yesterday the German dialogue coach gave everything its final polish!" Joey turned from the window. "All that harsh German—our coach is amazing; the slang sounds brutal and authentic!"
He made exaggerated German sounds. "Storyboard artists are killing it! The basement tavern shootout—incredible! The cinema fire scene—oh man, the boards are so detailed. They look ready to explode off the page!"
"Location scouts are already in Bavaria, Germany!" Joey continued. "Real deal, Bruce—old WWII farmhouses, bullet holes still in the walls. I'm flying out with the crew soon."
"Congrats, Joey," Bruce said with a genuine smile. "Ready to knock it out of the park?" In the rearview mirror he saw Ross stir slightly at Joey's excitement.
"Absolutely!" Joey puffed his chest. "Donny Donowitz is always ready to smash some Nazi skulls with his bat!"
Near Ross's building, Bruce glanced back. "Ross, don't go home alone—come have coffee with us."
"No thanks, Bruce. I need some time by myself."
"Nope. You'll just sit there and mope. Coffee and friends—now," Joey overruled. "Bruce, head to Bedford Street."
So Bruce drove past Ross's building and headed toward Bedford.
Stopped at a red light on Sixth Avenue, inspiration suddenly struck Bruce like lightning.
A film he'd watched countless times—a brilliant crime comedy with intersecting storylines, dark humor, and chaotic twists. The kind of energetic, fast-paced storytelling that audiences loved.
The thought hit him hard: He could write something like that NOW! Excitement replaced the sadness of Marcel's departure.
Wait—a British crime story wouldn't work for American audiences. He'd need to completely reimagine it with an American setting and characters.
Parked outside Central Perk, Bruce said abruptly, "Sorry—just got a script idea I need to write immediately. Ross, I can't stay."
"No problem, Bruce. Go write. Joey, Chandler and I will be fine."
Bruce grabbed a large coffee to go, rushed upstairs, turned on the lights, closed the curtains against the sunset over Greenwich Village, and ordered pizza.
He loaded paper into the typewriter and sat down.
Ideas flooded his mind—he'd adapt the structure and energy but make it completely his own: London rain became Brooklyn grit; British accents shifted to harsh New York street slang; the card game moved to a rundown warehouse in Lower Manhattan
the crime boss transformed into an Irish-American gangster operating from Brooklyn; the bumbling crew got heavier attitude; the drug deal doubled in scope; a neighbor became a burnt-out Greenwich Village artist...
Every element now distinctly stamped with 1990s New York edge and energy.
The typewriter's first metallic strike rang out.
Time disappeared; orange sunset faded to purple, then complete darkness.
Coffee cooled, was refilled, cooled again. Bruce paced the room, working through dialogue exchanges under his breath.
After two intense days of nonstop writing, gray dawn crept through the windows. Bloodshot eyes stared at the thick manuscript stack. On the cover, he'd scrawled in marker: "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels."
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