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Blockbuster

Blockbuster

Hollywood is driven by Blockbusters.

You know the ones, big movies that make hundreds of millions at the box office. They’re what people come out to see, the event flicks that will live forever. To work on one is the pinnacle of a person’s career.

But creating a Blockbuster requires sacrifice, it’s what they’re built on.

And it takes a lot of people to make one.

Producers like Simon, Ole Vipe, or Sigil are forced to sacrifice all but their narrow-sighted mission to solve a riddle that may have no answer. Screenwriters, like Deathnote, Chronoa, take up their pencil to write scripts to be followed to the letter, sacrificing their own free will to ensure their vision be done.

Vayikra hold themselves up like directors, using the holy script to instructing others of its word play, at the same time sacrificing their credibility every time they change it to suit their needs.

Cameramen, like SeeSaw, are always searching for the right shot. Through the heart, they seek their heart’s perfect, but their artistry isolates them. What could have been picturesque is sacrificed to their selfish desires.

Meanwhile, the composer, like Mordecai, stands in his orchestral prison, hoping to wake up an audience with his dulcet tones. But that prison keeps their focus narrow, sacrificing their ability to see that sometimes a nightmare is unavoidable.

It’s an ocean of actors out there, each trying to find supporting roles to distinguish themselves. But much like Rainbow Party or Jet Set Radio, each of them just wallpaper the background, players in a larger game that sacrifice their ability to ever stand out on their own.

All while the leading men, like Zero and Corvus, take their turn atop the wheel of stardom, knowing that every day on top is one day closer to their sacrificial fall from grace.

The thing with all of those people is that they believe they matter, that people will remember their sacrifices. But they’re each and every one interchangeable, lambs marching for a machine that only wishes to slaughter them.

They’ll never control the machine that is Hollywood.

Because at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is the Blockbuster itself.

Just like the only thing that matters in Lambs to the Slaughter is the Bad Mother Fucker who wins it.

They’re names that live forever: Quinn. Jack. Mammon. Newton. Rhodes. Van Chan.

Luke fucking Storm.

No one remembers the losers that made it happen, and they sure as hell won’t when we make the sequel to the biggest Blockbuster in history.

That’s my Endgame: what drives me each and every goddamned day. Because at the end of the day, the marquee won’t have the producer’s name on it. It won’t have the directors, the screenwriters, or the cameramans. The composer and actors will never have their name in the lights.

No, that’s reserved for the Blockbuster.

Hollywood Luke Storm.

Because you see, I’m not fighting to be the biggest star in OSW.

I already am.

I’m fighting to be the biggest star in the whole fucking world.

Not just A blockbuster.

THE Blockbuster

Thank you for your sacrifice.