B U G M A N

May 21, 2019

David Benioff held his head high. It had been a years-long journey, a career milestone he'd dreamed of, and now it was time for the Game of Thrones debrief. It was time for bigger and better things. He'd seen some criticism on Twitter but that was no matter. Of course there was criticism of his work—all the best art is controversial in its time. Like Wolverine: Origins. Benioff felt a pang of sorrow for the masses, a controlled sympathy that came not from their collective disappointment but from their lack of vision, their want to thoughlessly consume. Perhaps one day the critics would thank him. Perhaps one day, Benioff would be revered alongside the greats of his time.

The HBO headquarters was a short walk from his Mom's Manhattan bungalow. New York was his city, and today it would thank him for his contributions to culture. Weiss was in the waiting room when he arrived, greeting Benioff with a small grin and a nod. Without asking, Benioff pulled Weiss from his chair and began to spin, holding hands as he hummed the star wars theme.
“Bumbumbumbuuuuuummm—Pewpew—buuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhmmm—”
“Stop it! David, stop it! Let go of me!”

Benioff let go after pretending like he didn't hear. The door to John's office opened and an assistant left with an empty yogurt cup. Benioff expected some sort of greeting—high praise, confetti, maybe even a stripper in a cake to celebrate this momentous achievement. There was only silence from the open door and Weiss began to walk towards it. Benioff quickly stepped in front of him. Weiss was always trying to assert dominance in subtle ways and Benioff couldn't stand it. Writer first, co-writer second.

John Stankey, the CEO of AT&T Warner Media, stared at Benioff and Weiss from across his 1878 tiger mahogany grand desk. He was wearing a wrinkled suit and the dazzling Manhattan skyline was his backdrop. John had a strange look on his face—Benioff had never seen somebody express happiness in such a terse manner, as if John was waiting to explode with anger. Weiss must have noticed too, for he closed the door silently. John stared at the two men. He wiped his brow and took off his glasses, setting them on the desk in defeat. It was 10am on a Tuesday but a glass of whiskey was sweating on the antique wood, no coaster. He must have been upset about something else—corporate malarkey, dead spouse or child, whatever—and it touched Benioff that John was still attempting to celebrate. He beamed at the beleaguered CEO.

“Shucks, John! Hope you got two more glasses.”

Weiss, who had never consumed alcohol, shook his head in disgust. Much to Benioff's surprise, so did John.

“Shut up and sit down," said John coldly.
Benioff was confused. His smile faltered and was replaced by a Weiss-esque worry. Momentarily cowed into submission, he sat, noting that Weiss had sat first as a form of subtle dominance. Benioff was thinking of how to scold him later for this. John dispensed with all pleasantries.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
This was a joke—it had to be. Benioff smiled wryly, “I was thinking we did something incredible, sir! Now, I'm thinking of how to un-fuck Star Wars.”
John looked at Benioff like he was lightyears away. “First you'll need to think of how to un-fuck yourselves.”
“I'm sorry… I'm not sure what you mean?” Benioff's mouth was dry.

John sighed. Everyone knew that was a dangerous thing. In one swift motion John snapped his arm back, breaking his whiskey glass against the window and staining the skyline with brown streaks. Shards bounced on the imported Marble floors, scratching and skittering like rats until they settled.
“YOU STUPID FUCKS! You killed it. You killed it goddammit and now nobody wants to touch it! Stupid fucking fucks…”

Weiss tried to disappear into the Versace leather chair—uncomfortable in general conversation and especially so when it came to yelling—Benioff knew he would have to be the one to address John. He stood to meet John's gaze and it withered him. Benioff recoiled but remained standing, trying to eek out a word.
“But—”
John raised a finger, “When I learned how you fuckin’ idiots conned a man out of his life's work, I admit, I actually thought you'd be decent at TV. I mean shit, David, that's usually the hardest goddamn part! And you had that little goblin man, Grim or whatever—he was a consultant, yeah? So what the fuck happened with Game of Thrones? Why the fuck do I come to work and find you morons have killed a franchise?”

Benioff had always held John in high regard. You don't get to be the CEO of AT&T Warner Media by being a fool, yet here John was. He sighed, “Well you see, Sir, when Dante first released his seminal work, 'Inferno' the lay people of the time simply could not comprehend the—” John grew redder in the face with each passing word. Benioff was satisfied by this. John couldn't contain himself and it was undignified, nebbish and humiliating, this was why John was lashing out—insecurity because he didn't understand the ending to Game of Thrones. It’s difficult, Benioff concluded, to endure the presence of greater men.

John cut him off, “You shut the fuck up with that! Dante was a fuckin’ peasant who lived in a cave, or something.”
Weiss waited for John to pause, expertly inserting himself in the space of a breath. “Um, actually Dante was probably from a rather wealthy—at least in terms of status—family, sir…”
John looked at Weiss with such loathing no words were needed to quiet him. The silence hung penumbral in the room.

“I don't give a shit about your art unless it makes me money. If you want to go live in your own 12th century shit, I could give less than a fuck—and trust me—I'd like to. But do you morons know what I can't ignore?”
Benioff opened his mouth to answer before realizing the question was rhetorical.
"LOSSES! Fucking line-go-down LOSSES!"
Benioff, still standing with a slack jaw, was quick to defend himself.
“Losses? John, more people tuned in to HBO for the Game of Thrones finale than ever before. More people signed up for premium because they wanted to watch it,” Benioff tried to stop his voice from breaking but was unsuccessful. “That's not a loss, it's a win…”

John turned from red to white, putting his head in his hands and rubbing his eyes. Weiss looked nervously at Benioff and was ignored. John's voice was muffled while he rubbed his palms on his face in frustration. “Jesus fucking Christ. Fucking Jesus Christ in hell with you goddamn knitwits...”
Benioff felt a rush of nervousness. He'd always given John more credit than most, but now he realized the man sitting in front of him, the man running AT&T Warner Media, was just as much of a fool as the lay people who made facile criticisms of his art. Benioff’s mind swirled with possibilities, wondering how he could tell a man so important that he was wrong. Benioff offered an olive branch, mostly out of pity.
“I guess I must be missing something?”

John lifted his head from his hands. He slowly got up, not bothering to put his glasses back on. He kicked shards of glass away from his path as he crossed the penthouse office to the liquor cabinet. He poured a large glass, neat, and leaned against a bookshelf that had been imported from a church in medieval France. John sighed deeply before he began.
“Look, there was a lot riding on this, pretty much more than ever before. A goddamn juggernaut of a franchise died this weekend because you retards killed it in the cradle. Or maybe at graduation, I don’t fuckin’ know…”
Benioff stiffened at such crudeness. “But it was a success! Sir, I don't—”
“IT WASN'T! Do you think I'd be this upset about a success? Do you honestly fuckin' think so little of me?”
Now that Benioff realized the ending had gone over John's head, he did. He opened his mouth to answer but it seemed John was full of rhetorical questions. He continued his tirade.
“You know we were in talks of building a theme park, right? Universal wanted a piece, Disney was trying to get us to censor it for those dipshit prudes. Hasbro, Lego, BIG BOX RETAIL FOR FUCK’S SAKE! They all pulled out over the weekend. All of 'em. Nobody will touch Game of Thrones. It's dead.”
John's face tightened as he took a sip of whiskey, looking out over the skyline through the stained window. Benioff was beginning to sweat. The office had been so cool when he'd walked in. He cleared his throat nervously, “I think they just didn't get it. Things like this, John—art that comes before its time—they blow over. Like Wolverine Origins did.”
“Lucky for you Wolverine could be revived, we put Goldman on that. But this, holy shit, this… I thought Game of Thrones was too big to fail. I thought that little goblin man—Grim or whatever—I thought he had it handled. Holy shit. The money, the fuck-ing mon-ey…”

John knocked back the rest of his Whiskey and poured another glass. Benioff sat in stunned silence, realizing he had bested George R.R. Martin himself, beaten the author to his own punch. Written something so subversive and ahead of its time, his vision edged on the boundaries of human comprehension. How could he phrase this tactfully?
“Well the best art subverts expectations. We had George's notes, I had a vision, the actors acted and I don't know… it seemed, good?”
John froze.
“Subvert expectations? You mean to tell me you worthless fucks did this ON PURPOSE?”

A vein bulged in John's forehead. One of his eyelids twitched slightly and his mouth formed words that were never said. Benioff knew Weiss wouldn't say anything. He squared his shoulders, preparing to answer the rhetorical question.
“Well, I mean, everyone—”
“No!” John pointed furiously at Benioff, “You shut the fuck up when I'm talking. Why would you subvert their expectations on purpose? What does that do? What is gained by not giving the masses what they want? You fucks. That is literally the purpose of television and somehow you fail. You fucking fail so badly I have to fly ALL THE WAY BACK FROM LA TO YELL AT YOU.”
“You could have called…”
A switch flipped behind John's eyes. His arm jerked like he wanted to throw the glass but he held back when he saw Benioff flinch.

“You ever been out on a date, fuckwad? They expect you to show up. You ever live in a society with laws, asshole? The expectation is that you fucking follow them. The expectation is that you show up to your fucking date! THE EXPECTATIONS AREN'T FUCKING SUBVERTED BECAUSE WHEN YOU SUBVERT THEM, YOU END UP JERKING OFF OR IN JAIL! AND it’s fucking expensive.”

Benioff had finally been made uncomfortable. Still having the upper hand, he was not sure how to proceed. John was drunk, intoxicated and unstable, wandering around his office in a frenzy, forcing Benioff to explain concepts that simply defied explanation. What was he supposed to do, sit here and explain art to a CEO? The gall. Benioff met fire with fire.
“Okay… I mean, I wanted to be done with it. Alright? Jesus christ. That’s eight years of my life, John. My kids are teenagers now. I mean, shit—George couldn’t even finish the books! What the fuck am I supposed to do with you assholes breathing down my neck, making me do shit that I didn’t sign up for?”
John turned on a dime and punched Benioff square in the jaw. Stars clouded his vision and he staggered, falling into the papers, pens and glass shards that littered the floor—the whisky slick causing a dozen little cuts to sear. Benioff’s question had not been rhetorical. John towered over him.

“Listen here you little cocksucker—and listen good—I can forgive a weird season six, I can. You were adjusting and it was entertaining enough. I can forgive a Starbucks cup and a plot hole every now and again, I can, I do—I’m reasonable…”
John was pacing as he yelled, spit flying from his lips. Benioff’s shoes scraped in the glass for before he found enough traction to begin shuffling across the floor, out of kicking range. But he was not afraid, he was disgusted. Mercilessly, John continued.
“But what I cannot forgive and what I will not forgive—is bullshit like this. My god. What the fuck is the point of creating expectations in the first place if you’re only going to sUbVeRt them? What in the fucking shit-crusted asshole of The Inferno does that have to do with good television? Answer.”

Bennioff got to his feet, papers and glass crinkling beneath him. His hair was disheveled and small buttons of blood stained his $700 jeans. His mouth hung open for a moment and he wished the building would fall down and end it all. End his disgust, the trauma of being misunderstood. The best men perish without vindication because they have no need for it.

“I… I guess we wanted to do something people would remember.” Benioff’s voice cracked, “One time when I was a kid, I had a pet mouse, right? I expected it to live a happy life. Well, John, I woke up one morning to the mouse seizing. It squeaked and stretched its little legs out. I remember watching its mouse hands convulse, stiffen and clench, stiffen and clench… And its little mouse eyes, the way they rolled. The way its mouth gnashed and its tongue, that little rat tongue sticking straight out like a goddamn, I dunno… Like a finger pointing to God and asking why. My mouse—she seized all day, John. And my mother… Always harsh—said there was only one way to deal with it. And that was to—”
John kicked the desk loudly. More papers and pens fell onto the designer marble floor, “Jesus fuck! David, what are you talking about?”
“The point is, my mom made me…” Benioff swallowed. “She made me kill my mouse. It subverted my expectations and I, I never forgot it. Shit, John, I’m telling you now. And well, I guess if you don’t forget television, then that must make it… Good? I took my pain and turned it into something for others to enjoy. That’s literally art.”

John laughed and looked up at the ceiling, pacing back over to the liquor cabinet and refilling the glass he so desperately wanted to throw. Benioff was satisfied, he’d surely given the CEO food for thought. After dwelling on a fresh pour, John turned angrily to face Benioff once more..
“You mean to tell me you pulled this fuckin’ shit over a rat? UNIVERSAL STOPS SUCKING MY COCK BECAUSE YOUR MOM MADE YOU KILL A RAT? Good TV makes money you fuckin’ idiot. Good TV makes deals. Good TV does what the fans want and gets controversial within its bounds. Good TV is forgotten, retwatched and twisted into money by nostalgia. You had that. You fucking idiots had that before you even started, and you threw it all away…”
John choked, staggering back over the desk and sitting down, straightening the papers that remained. Weiss sat uncharacteristically still for a human. John’s labored breaths wheezed rhythmically. Papers and glass crinkled as Benioff shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“It’s just—not quite, John. I wanted it to be memorable, I thought that would be enough to cement the finale. I dunno…”

“Memorable good, sure.” John put his head back in his hands. “This was memorable bad, shit. All that build-up for nothing, everyone who cares hates it. It’s dead. 10 years of investments dried up overnight. Whenever that goblin man—Grim or whatever—finished those goddamn books, we had plans to make Game of Thrones the next Harry Potter. The next Lord of the Rings or whatever fuckin’ fantasy bullshit. King Arthur doesn’t work, ha—this was a good thing. Stupid fuckers.” John spat across the desk. The spit landed with an empty spatter and Weiss flinched.

Benioff was frustrated. He was in no position to tell John that he simply did not understand the merit in this approach. John’s vision ended at himself, Benioff’s trailed mystically into many futures. Benioff capitulated to the solipsist, knowing it was the only way forward.
“Well damn John, I guess I’m sorry. What happens now?”
“You dipshits.” John smiled for the first time. “I nulled your Star Wars deal and gave the severance to the board. And that weird confederate shit is axed too. You’re co-directing Netflix from now on kids. You’re finished.”

Benioff let out a gasp despite trying not to. Weiss gave a wheeze of sorts. This had to be a trick. A petty ruse to disguise an untold degree of success.
“You can’t do that John! That’s illegal.” Benioff grinned to let John know he got the joke. John did not smile back, looking on with a stone cold face.
“And what are you going to do about it? You signed the documents and donated the money to AT&T Warner Media holdings yesterday. You were compensated in stock options, which expired about,” John pretended to check his watch, “Ten minutes ago.”

Benioff’s life changed in an instant. John wasn’t kidding—it was over. All because the world couldn’t understand his art. Benioff sighed and squared his shoulders, wiping away a single tear. There would be no more lightsaber fights between him and Weiss, no more civil war reenactments with the n-word—no more zeitgeist. The room seemed to darken around John. Weiss piped up.
“I didn’t sign anything!”
John snorted. “We’re finished here. Netflix will be in touch. Get out of my fuckin’ sight...”

Benioff crunched across the room and, in an act of unambiguous dominance, opened the door for Weiss, who darted from the safety of the leather like a dog being let out. Weiss turned, speaking one last time.
“Thank you, sir! We won’t—”
John threw his glass. Weiss dodged expertly and it shattered on the doorway, spattering the two in whiskey.

That had not gone well. Benioff chucked to himself in spite of it all. He had tried to subvert expectations, but instead his own were subverted.


/end