The wall was a symphony in plastic photoframes, meaningless qualifications and semigloss beige. Vern DeChambliss stared at it while his producer explained to him that the studio was shutting down his movie.
Science fiction just isn’t doing well enough at the box office. No, straight-to-DVD isn’t an option. Stem the losses. Credit crisis. Nothing personal.
As he shook hands and left and waited for the lift, Vern realized that he really didn’t give a damn. The script sucked, the actors they’d lined up were notorious pricks, and he could finally get out of town for a while. Nevertheless, money had been spent on props and costumes: like corpses in the arctic circle, this presented something of a disposal problem.
Most of it could be sold on, but the tubes. What to do about the cryotubes? That shit was too cheesy for even the Sci-Fi channel; he’d be lucky to get rid of them on Craigslist, let alone with an asking price.
As the elevator swooped him to the ground floor, he caught a brief glimpse through its windows of the world around him. Lighting a cigarette, he pondered the question until it became a statement: someone, somewhere, would be stupid enough to take them off his hands.
Product Page [Med-spa]
Tunbridge Wells ushers in the world’s first LED spa [BornRich]
This copy sounds like it escaped from Planet Woot!
Not that that is a bad thing…