FrancoFranco2

What the hell? Yeah, yeah, I know.

Only one Franco will survive
James Franco meets Highlander
If anyone wants to publish this, I’m game.
I’m serious. Well, maybe I’m not (or am I?).

Monday night meant the trendy bar down the street. James Franco could be found sitting in the wrap-around booth from 4:30PM to closing. If you wanted to talk to James Franco, and there are plenty of people looking to talk to James Franco, you’d already know this is where he’d be.
Just look at tonight: James Franco’s making enough to pay for as many drinks as he can handle. The appetizers and food are on the house.
James Franco is a name on quick dial, the kind of name you wonder about and yet you know all of those answers. James Franco sold the answers to you for a day’s wage, plus a few free betting opportunities.
This is business, not a popularity contest. Social life is not a life: It’s a career.
Right now, fifteen are paying James Franco to sit at the booth.
How was James Franco supposed to remember someone based on what they looked like was absurd; James Franco remembered people based on their highest betting wagers, their biggest habits and addictions. James Franco remembers them based on their last purchases, last sales.
James Franco knew of a notable appearance to be made at 7PM. James Franco gestured for everyone to lean in. It was time to start spreading the word.
“What’s the minimum?”
James Franco placed a finger to his lips, “Not yet. Not until you see what you’ll be betting on.”
“’What’ are we betting on?”
James Franco shook his head, “Can’t give anyone an advantage.”
“Oh fuck, come on.”
Nothing. They couldn’t do anything.
James Franco sipped his drink, “Everyone bets the same price.”
“This can’t be good.”
James Franco flagged down the waitress, “You’ll see.”

*

“James Franco” was already handing out those cards.
White laminated cards, the size of any other business card but instead of name, contact info, and the illusion of reputation and regard, a red arrow pointed the viewer to the backside of the card.
He hadn’t changed; or maybe it’s that he’s never settled down.
It was “James Franco” all right.
“Hey, name’s ‘James Franco.’ Hey y’all! Hey, ‘James Franco.’ Hi, ‘James Franco.’” After giving his greeting, he handed James Franco those cards.
The card read, “Hello, I’m James Franco.”
“James Franco” turned to James Franco, “James Franco! In the flesh!”
James Franco spoke in monotone, “James Franco. Been a long time.”
“A long time.”
“Oh yeah, a long time.”
“Very long time.”
“Long.”
“Time.”
“Very.”
“James Franco” looked around the bar, cards already tossed aside.
“How are you doing?”
“Good. You?”
“Damn good.”
“Raking it in?”
“You know it.”
“Looks like everyone’s having fun.”
“You know how I like it.”
“James Franco” grinned.
James Franco grinned back.
“James Franco” laughed.
James Franco joined in.
People started laughing too.
“James Franco” spots a woman eying them from across the bark. “James Franco” winks.
James Franco shakes his head, “No fucking way man. No fucking way…”

*

If I could I’d ask for a million more. I’d probably get it.
Tuesday afternoon.
James Franco.

*

Franco and “Franco” at a strip club. Let’s go.

*

This person seemed to know James Franco.
Did you know James Franco?
That’s awesome.
You should send him your script.
You should send him your book.
Whatever.
At least you know Franco.

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