"Garfield ! Have a seat." His boss's plump red face and expanded waistline betrayed the fact he was bankrupt. Financially, as well as morally.
Lynns shrunk into a chair as Panessa dispensed with small talk then began to justify the unceremonious firing of this lowly FX artist.
Despite critical acclaim, The Inferno had recovered less than a quarter of its inflated budget in the six months since its release. Such a high-profile failure, combined with increased attention from the IRS meant that laundering millions of dollars of mob money through Panessa Studios was no longer a viable business plan.
"I always liked you, Lynns," he said, like a veterinarian comforting an animal before pushing the plunger on a lethal injection. "But the industry's different now. As a studio, we need to adapt or perish... and that means making some tough decisions."
Garfield declined the proffered cigar with a wave of his hand. He felt sick watching the greasy old bastard wrap his lips around a wad of dried leaves that cost three times his monthly salary.
"I'm sure a man of your intelligence knew this day would come, Garfield. I'm sure you've prepared for every eventuality."
Lynns was prepared all right. He struck a match off the solid oak table and held it up to light the man's cigar. He met his boss's gaze for the last time then expelled a mouthful of nitroglycerine through the dancing flame.
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