milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

[oom: Bad news is a little easier to deal with the second time around]

Over by the fire, Wilford Warstache is lording up the entire area like he owns it, flipping through a large stack of files.

Files full of intern applications – a hell Wilford remembers all too well. But this time, he's on the other side of it, by orders of the studio. He tried, but he couldn't weasel his way out of this particular obligation, but if it is stuck with it, he’s hiring on his own standards. For one, he only wants local kids. San Andreas only. No east coast transfers on scholarships and trust funds. And second, nobody with parents or uncles or grandfathers – or any family at all – in the media.

CBN's HR departent seems to have no such standards at all. There are more than a few names in his stack he recognises, and not because they’re common. Kids that are definitely someone’s grandson or daughter make up a good third of the pool. They’re the first to go straight into the fire. Anyone from east of the river, Wilford tosses in as well without a second thought. By the time he's done with that, he's still left with quite a few to choose from.

This is going to be a long night.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's going to be even longer now, no doubt. Jim gives no fucks about files, and just pushes some out of the way so he can sit down. he has an apple and a knife in his hand, and proceeds to apply one to the other.

'Doing actual work? I'm shocked.'

Hi, Wilford.

Oh, fuck off, Jim.

"Apparently, it needs to get done," Wilford says. Because apparently, he's going to keep getting shot by his producer if he continues to not do it.

He's got a basket of gim-bugak nearby, which he's been idly breaking apart and munching on while he slogs through this paperwork hell.

Nah, he's good here.

'What is it?'

He doesn't even want to look at whatever the hell is in that basket.

Edited 2017-01-18 19:58 (UTC)

What? Not a fan of fried seaweed and rice paste, Jim?

"Intern bullshit," Wilford answers, all full of grump, as he throws another application into the fire. He hasn't even come across anybody worth short listing yet.

Jim eats a slice of apple of the blade of his knife. No, not a fan of anything involving the word 'paste'. He grew up in the 80s, where that was a valid sandwich filling every. fucking. day.

He helps himself to a file, and flicks through it.

'Don't you have staff for this? Why would you have to choose?'

"Because anyone else would hire someone terrible," Wilford answers.

That, and nobody else wants to do it either.

"If I have to have a bunch of untrained idiots running around, I might as well pick the ones I hate least."

'Interesting. Something you don't trust to anyone else, but you've been putting it off and bellyaching about it for ages. Wouldn't it have been easier to do just do your job in the first place?'

Of course it would. Jim closes the file he's looking, and tosses it into Wilford's lap.

'Hire him. He'll do well.'

"I was hoping they'd forget and quit bugging me about it," Wilford says.

Is this not a perfectly reasonable way to run a production company?

Wilford picks up the folder Jim tossed to him and looks at the application inside. "Out of state," he says, tossing the folder into the fire without another glance.

'You're only hiring people from in-state?'

What the fuck kind of policy is that?

Wilford has his reasoning.

"They'll know what they're in for this way."

He breaks off a piece of crunchy seaweed and nibbles on it while he looks at the next folder. This one at least meets his basic criteria, so he tosses it off to the side to look at more closely later.

'You mean the rest of the country isn't insane?'

Jim slices off another piece of apple, eats it, and takes a handful of files.

'Anorexic-' it goes to the side, 'out of state, out of state,' fire, 'really hot,' goes to the side, 'self-harm and recovering addict,' goes to the side, 'definite hire.' He chucks the last into Wilford's lap.

The anorexic, the hottie, and the addict get tossed onto the 'maybe', because Jim's a believer in people with issues making the best employees.

The hottie is just potential eye-candy.

Surprisingly, Jim and Wilford see eye to eye on this matter.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Wilford says calmly.

Still, he checks over Jim's new candidates, and only tosses one of them into the fire.

"Nobody on a full-ride," he says.

'Any other definite no-no's?'

Fire, fire, fire. Oooh, ex-con.

'This one'll work his arse off.'

He chucks it at Wilford. And then another.

'And this one's father is a senator, but he worked two jobs all the way through uni. He's either been cut off, or he's trying to stand on his own two feet. Or he loves television so much he'll start at the bottom. Hire him.'

The ones trying to prove themselves are the ultimate best. Easiest to break down, and mould into whatever the hell you want.

Fire, fire, fire.

Apple.

"Fire," Wilford says, about the senator's son. "Too many connections either way."

Otherwise, Wilford seems to agree with Jim's choices, and keeps the rest in the short list after only the quickest of double-checks.

"Nobody from notable families, not that you'd know any. Nobody who's 'always wanted' to be in media."

He tosses another two into the fire, and finds one he likes for the short list.

"This guy won't come in before ten," Wilford reads off an application. He tosses it off to the side.

'One of my best employees was from a notable family,' he says, mildly. 'They can be taught like anyone else.'

They are often the most broken of all. Look at Sherlock. But eh, it's not his problem. He takes another handful, and gets about six in a row that have to be burned.

'Where's your little friend? I know you still have him.'

Either that, or Wilford just doesn't wash his clothes. He wouldn't put it past him.

"Who says I want to teach anybody anything?" Wilford asks.

Maybe he likes people who don't bend to his every beck and call. Which is why he doesn't want anybody who's going to come in prepared to bend over and kiss his ass.

When Jim asks about the dog, he rolls his eyes.

"Shut up," he says.

'Oh, you're going to half-arse their actual work too?'

Wilford is obviously the worst boss in the world.

'And no, I won't shut up. Where is it?'

"I never wanted them in the first place."

Wilford is a terrible boss. It's amazing his production company hasn't imploded yet.

He sighs. Best to get this one over with, apparently.

"Probably coming off of a terrible drug high right about now," Wilford guesses. Unless the vet plans on keeping him drugged up through the night as well.

'But as you do have to have them, why not put some effort in and actually get ones that'll be helpful?'

There is no logic here, and Jim hates the absence of logic.

Apple.

'You had him cut? Probably for the best.'

"If I find the right ones, they ought to be somewhat useful to begin with."

He doesn't care if they don't know how to operate a boom or how to format a script. If they're stubborn enough, he can throw them out in the field and put them to work annoying information out of people.

"License fee's cheaper that way."

Another stack of folders for the fire.

Jim is bored with being helpful so concentrates on eating, until he gets bored of that too and chucks half the thing in the fire.

'You are so keeping that thing forever.'

"They were on to me. I had to make it convincing," Wilford says.

He will definitely not be keeping the dog forever. So there.

"Had to do something to keep 'em buying back in."

Wilford gives up on the folders and tosses the remainder of those to be looked through into the fire. Time to go over the short list, now. Ugh.

He definitely will.

'Putting up with all of this just to win a bet is sad in the extreme.'

"It's not to win a bet. It's to make a point."

Wilford tosses half of the short list into the fire as well.

There are too many left, but Wilford's done. He's weeded it down enough that he won't completely hate the ones he hands to Nichola in the morning.

"I gotta get the fuck out of here," he says, throwing one more into the fire for good measure. "Come on, let's go shoot something."

He assumes Jim is probably also bored, if he came over here to help go through goddamn intern applications.

'...yeah, all right.'

He is, indeed, bored. Sherlock's back in London, and the walls are already closing in. He's not even going to roll his eyes, and pretend to be doing the guy a favour.

'Are you providing the weapons, or can I bring my own?'

"Bring your own, if you want. Make it quick," Wilford says.

As he gets his stuff all put together and ready to leave, he can't help feel like he's forgetting something.

And then he remembers that the dog is at the vet, and gets annoyed with himself.

'Sir, yes sir.'

He throws up a mock salute, rolls his eyes, and heads up the stairs. He's got quite the little arsenal up there, but only brings one Sig Sauer and a box of ammo.

He also leaves a note for Sherlock that just says, Gone to Los Santos, should be back before you see this. xxx

'Okay, good to go.'

Wilford shakes his head. What a wholly annoying person Jim is.

When he's back, Wilford leads the way through the door.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only