All of us.JIM THOMPSON Larry got a smarmy doctor, Dr. Hoff—The Hoff, he called himself—to make a house call. Hoff was at one time attached to a major studio until he, um, overprescribed to a Batman actor and the guy bought the farm. Now he supplied Larry and other players in the biz with an abundance of scripts, and not the Final Draft variety. Hoff examined the gunshot wound, went, “Not serious.” Larry wanted to wallop him, said, “Not fucking serious for you. It hurts like a son of a bitch.” A pause as they both knew this meant, Vike. Hoff, wanting to at least feel appreciated, said, “Gunshot wound, you know I’m supposed to report this.” Larry slapped him on the side of the head, said, “Yeah and I’m supposed to helm the next X-Men but like that’s gonna happen.” Hoff handed him a couple of scripts, asked, “You going to report it?” He looked around, asked, “And, by the way, how’s your wife? Haven’t seen the little woman in a while.” Something in his tone whipped Larry’s head around.
