Urban System in America
Chapter 234 - 233: More Absurdities

Chapter 234: Chapter 233: More Absurdities

He wandered into another area—the back garden lounge, dimly lit and more relaxed. It looked peaceful at first, but beneath the soft lighting and the smell of lavender candles, there was a different kind of intensity. Conversations were quieter, but heavier.

The conversations here weren’t loud or drunken; they were deliberate. Strategic. There were no shouting matches or selfie flashes. Just murmurs exchanged between tight smiles, hands on shoulders, and eyes that calculated before blinking. Phones were slid across tables like poker chips. Champagne glasses clinked in a rhythm that felt less like celebration and more like code.

Briefcases were passed quietly beneath chairs, and names—big names—were whispered like prayers or warnings. But the whispers weren’t just about casting choices or film budgets. These people were discussing the direction of the global economy, the next presidential candidate they were backing, and how to maneuver federal policy in favor of the studios. They spoke of lobbying efforts like seasoned generals, casually mentioning donations large enough to bend laws. One executive chuckled about replacing the state governor—"He isn’t doing enough for Hollywood. Promised tax breaks, then backpedaled."

The laughter here was wrong. Too loud for such mild jokes, too sharp at the edges. Performative. These were people used to smiling while planning someone’s downfall—and rewriting the rules while they did it.

It was clear that they were the real bigwigs at the party. Not the attention-hungry influencers by the pool, or the half-drunk B-list stars trying to revive their fame. These were the gatekeepers, the dealmakers. The ones who decided which scripts saw light and which actors got blacklisted. The ones who didn’t audition or pitch—they summoned.

Here, in this curated slice of calm, careers were made over handshakes and destroyed over eye-rolls. One wrong word, one bad joke overheard by the wrong executive, and your next project could quietly vanish into development hell—or worse, never exist at all.

This wasn’t just a garden lounge. It was a throne room in disguise.

At one point, Rex spotted a tech billionaire sitting cross-legged on a tiger-print beanbag, passionately arguing with a former child star turned avant-garde performance artist about whether sound frequencies could replace traditional dialogue in cinema. The artist insisted that true emotion was best conveyed through whale calls and didgeridoos, claiming, "The future of film is resonance, not narrative." They both grew animated, drawing a small crowd that nodded as if witnessing a philosophical breakthrough.

Nearby, a psychic-for-hire read tarot cards for a pair of producers as they discussed box office projections based on planetary alignments. One of them whispered, dead serious, "Venus is in retrograde next month, so we should delay the premiere. Otherwise the love subplot won’t resonate with the collective unconscious."

A well-known director, once hailed as a genius, staggered through the crowd wearing nothing but a silk robe and fuzzy slippers, carrying a goldfish bowl. "This is my muse," he announced, slurring. "Her name is Clara, and she tells me what to shoot. She cried during my last pitch, so I knew it was gold."

A too-rich tech bro bragging to a group of nervous interns about his "private yacht parties" and "non-disclosure adventures." A B-list actress fake-laughing too hard at a studio exec’s joke, while his hand casually crept lower on her back.

In another room, Rex overheard a casting director running a live poll on index cards. "We’re trying to cast a 17-year-old time traveler," she explained to her entourage. "So we’re deciding between an actual teenager, a 28-year-old who looks young, or a 13-year-old with Botox."

Later, in a dimly lit hallway, Rex passed a room where several people were seated in utter silence, eyes locked on a screen playing an experimental art film—just a ten-minute loop of a melting popsicle. Some nodded solemnly, one even wiped away a tear. A man in a beret whispered, "It’s about climate grief. Genius."

Even the catering had flair—servers floated between rooms offering micro-desserts in syringes, cocktails that smoked like potions, and skewered seared crickets labeled "locust lollipops: a statement on sustainability."

At the far end of a hallway, he saw a group of tipsy producers gathered around a roulette wheel—an actual roulette wheel, gold-trimmed and perched on a marble pedestal like it was some sacred relic.

The game?

Genres.

Each wedge of the wheel was labeled in bold, glittery font: "romantic drama," "supernatural thriller," "war biopic," "sports underdog," "vampire musical," "talking animal action comedy"—and yes, even "erotic dystopian western."

One spin landed squarely on "zombie rom-com in space."

Instead of laughing, one of the producers leaned in like he’d just struck gold. "Actually... that could work. Hear me out."

Another immediately chimed in, sloshing champagne out of his glass, "Zombies fall in love on a moon colony—because their hearts remember, even when their brains don’t!"

A third producer, not to be outdone, clapped excitedly. "And the twist is, the virus is cured by love!"

They erupted into drunken cheers.

"We’ll pitch it to Maxstream. They’ll eat this shit up."

"Zombies fall in love on a moon colony."

"We’ll get a Social Media couple for leads—instant virality. Gen Z will go nuts."

"And merch! Moon colony hoodies with blood splatter prints!"

"Someone call Ducci. We’ll do a fashion collab."

Rex blinked slowly, then took a long sip of his drink. "I need another drink," he muttered, genuinely unsure whether this was satire or the birth of a box office hit.

The sheer ridiculousness of it was almost admirable. In any other industry, this would’ve been a joke whispered over drinks. But here? It might be greenlit by Monday.

This party had everything—glamour, glitz, desperation, and decay, all wrapped up in designer labels and dim lighting. It was the kind of place where the floor sparkled and the secrets stuck to your shoes.

And through it all, Rex moved like a silent observer, both amused and alarmed. The absurdity and darkness danced together seamlessly here, and every room offered another glimpse into the surreal engine that powered this glittering nightmare.

The deeper he went into the party, the clearer it became: this place wasn’t built on talent or truth. It was built on spectacle. On who could shout the loudest, dress the flashiest, or lie the smoothest.

(End of Chapter)