The Blimp Bar near Santa Monica Beach.
After leaving WMA headquarters, Matthew Broderick brought his gang of buddies straight here.
Now, sitting in a booth on the second floor overlooking the dance floor below, thinking about the past few days, Matthew Broderick's mood grew increasingly irritable. He suddenly tilted his head back and chugged a full bottle of dark beer.
Losing the role in The Butterfly Effect didn't bother him much.
It was just a slightly better script—Hollywood had no shortage of those. If he couldn't kick that kid out of the crew back then, he'd have quit anyway. He was a big star now; no way he'd work with someone he hated. Spielberg did that all the time.
But Matthew Broderick never imagined he'd be the one getting kicked out in the end.
If that was all, he'd probably just sulk for a bit.
Things spiraled beyond his expectations, though.
Because of this stupid mess, not only was he the one booted, but he also had to sign a cheap movie deal with Fox.
Three million dollars.
After WarGames three years ago, his salary had already hit that mark.
Now, with Ferris Bueller's Day Off such a box office smash—likely cracking the year's top ten—he still had to sign another contract for just three million.
Damn WMA.
In Norman Broca's office that afternoon, Matthew Broderick nearly flipped out and fired him on the spot.
But in the end, he didn't dare.
The WMA contract was the least of it—half the people jumping to CAA this year hadn't even finished theirs. The key was, he knew pissing off Norman Broca could ruin him.
In this world, the person who knew a star's secrets best was often their agent.
FUCK!
He muttered the curse under his breath, barely holding back from hurling the beer bottle into the crowd below. The pent-up rage with nowhere to go nearly drove him mad.
Pulling his gaze from the dance floor, Matthew Broderick reached for another beer. He glanced absently at the blonde girl nestled in his buddy Alan Settler's arms across the circular booth, whispering sweet nothings—and suddenly recalled brushing past that guy at WMA headquarters earlier.
This was all because of that damn Butterfly Effect.
All because of that kid.
Pushing away the girl clinging to him, Matthew Broderick raised a hand toward Kristy Swanson across the way, then just stood up and walked over.
On the other side of the booth, seeing Matthew Broderick approach, everyone scooted over a bit.
Squeezing in between Alan Settler and another buddy, Mark Stein, Matthew Broderick cut straight to it with Kristy Swanson: "Kristy, don't you know that Simon Westeros guy?"
Hearing the question, Mark Stein on his left immediately leaned in.
That bar dance floor incident a while back was etched in Mark Stein's memory. Because of how he'd looked struggling in Simon Westeros's grip, people had started calling him "Monkey" lately. The nickname had spread quietly, turning him into a laughingstock in many eyes.
As Matthew Broderick's close pal, Mark Stein knew the ins and outs of WMA's recent drama.
Now, hearing Matthew bring up Simon Westeros, he sensed his chance for revenge had come.
Unlike outsiders, over this period, many eyes in Hollywood had quietly turned to a kid named Simon Westeros.
Kristy Swanson realized Simon wasn't the nobody from weeks ago. But she didn't think he compared to a hot young star like Matthew.
Hearing him ask about Simon, Kristy even felt reluctant to mention him, shaking her head. "Matthew, we just ran into each other that day. All I know is he works at Griffin Supermarket on 25th Street."
Matthew Broderick felt a twinge of disappointment.
If Kristy knew where Simon lived, he'd love to take his crew over right now, beat the crap out of the guy, and vent his frustration.
Noticing Matthew's downcast look, Mark Stein jumped in: "Matthew, maybe we hit up the supermarket. Even if he's not working there anymore, the others should know where he is."
Matthew Broderick hesitated—he hated trouble.
Seeing that, Mark Stein pressed: "Matthew, all this crap lately started with Simon Westeros's script. Don't you want to rough him up a bit?"
By the end, Mark Stein's tone dripped with gritted teeth, his voice rising.
Overhearing, Alan Settler, arm around his girl, laughed loudly: "Monkey, you mean you want to rough up Simon Westeros?"
The surrounding youths burst into laughter.
Mark Stein's face flushed as he shot up, pointing at Alan Settler: "Call me Monkey one more time, you fuck."
Alan Settler didn't flinch, raising an eyebrow defiantly and yelling: "Monkey!"
Seeing Mark Stein lunge at Alan Settler, Matthew Broderick grabbed him. "Cut the shit, all of you."
With that, Matthew Broderick stood anyway. "That's it for today. Girls stay—guys with me."
From the earlier exchange, the guys already got Matthew Broderick's drift. Mark Stein bounced up first, the others following with grins as they headed out with him.
Left in the booth by her boyfriend, Kristy Swanson just shrugged indifferently as the guys filed out.
A fight, whatever.
Or rather, some guy was about to get beat up.
No big deal.
It was past nine at night.
Matthew Broderick's group of six piled into two cars from the Blimp Bar and quickly found Griffin Supermarket on 25th Street in midtown.
They'd been brainstorming how to pry Simon Westeros's info from the staff when the scout they sent got out and easily spotted the figure behind the register through the glass doors.
Target confirmed, Mark Stein from the back car rushed to the front BMW, tapped the window. When it rolled down, he said to Matthew Broderick in the passenger seat: "Matthew, we just drag him out?"
Before Matthew could reply, driver Alan Settler snapped: "You idiot—that'd look like robbery. We wait till he clocks out. And Mark, what the fuck's with the baseball bat? You'll kill someone."
Mark Stein, eager for payback, didn't argue with Alan Settler. He waved the bat: "I know how to fight—don't need your ass telling me."
The group had similar part-time gigs before; they knew a 24-hour store likely switched shifts at 11 p.m.
They killed the next hour or so haphazardly, then drove back near Griffin Supermarket. Soon, they saw Simon Westeros pedal out on his bike from the alley behind.
The two cars started up quietly and tailed him.
Heading south on 25th for a stretch, Simon Westeros turned onto the still-bustling Santa Monica Boulevard at this late hour—not the spot for action.
They kept following until he veered into a narrow street between residential areas with sparse streetlights. Then the cars accelerated in sync.
"I'm sitting this out," Matthew Broderick said, eyeing the nearing figure ahead. Thinking better, he told his eager buddies in the car: "Give him a good beating. Next week, Vegas on me."
The promise lit up the guys even more.
Alan Settler braked, doors flew open, and three youths charged at the biking Simon Westeros ahead.
The one in back seemed extra impatient, bat swinging as he overtook the three, closing in behind Simon Westeros. Without mercy, he swung the bat hard into Simon Westeros's backpacked back.
From the car, Matthew Broderick watched Simon Westeros get knocked off his bike onto the road. The others seamlessly dragged the downed guy into a nearby alley. A flicker of worry crossed his mind, quickly turning to thrill—he even regretted not joining in.
In the dimmer alley, the dull thuds of fists, feet, and bat on flesh continued.
That sudden bat strike nearly knocked Simon out.
Some instinct made him curl up, hands shielding his head's vital spots.
What the hell?
The question flickered in his mind.
Amid the merciless blows, a thick wooden bat mixed in.
A baseball bat.
Simon vaguely realized.
But.
This could kill someone.
Is the grudge that deep?
Water from a puddle seeped into his clothes, the chill cooling his fading awareness.
In the faint light, Mark Stein's face twisted ferociously. Venting all his recent humiliations, seeing the young man helpless in the muck sparked a lone wolf's lament in him.
Get up if you can, punk!
Yelling inwardly, Mark Stein swung the bat again—at the shoulder this time. The thud stood out amid the barrage.
But as Mark Stein habitually lifted the bat again, it suddenly felt empty in his hands.
Then, amid the chaotic kicks, a sharp whoosh cut through.
Whoosh—
Crack!
A clear bone snap echoed.
One of the attackers collapsed, clutching his leg and wailing, voice breaking into sobs.
"Ah, my leg, ahh, leg—my leg's broken."
The sudden turn stunned the other four.
Mark Stein reacted first, lunging at the grounded Simon. "He grabbed my bat!"
A buddy's broken leg didn't scare the remaining four—it fueled their viciousness.
At Mark Stein's shout, the other three piled on.
"Hold him down, hold him!"
"Grab the bat first."
Whoosh—
Crack!
Another youth went down.
"You fucks were supposed to hold him—leg, ah, call an ambulance, I need an ambulance."
"Shut up, stop howling."
"Kill him."
In the narrow alley, the last three youths still swarmed the young man trying to stand—one pinning his body, one punching and kicking, the last grabbing for the bat in his hand.
Failing to rise again, Simon ditched the cumbersome bat, glanced at Mark Stein pinning him, and surged with force. A brutal elbow slammed into the side of his face.
Mark Stein felt like a hammer smashed his face—head snapping sideways, he spat blood and teeth.
Seeing Mark Stein hit the ground wailing, the remaining two finally felt fear.
But Simon gave them no time to think, easily snatching the bat back without Mark Stein hindering him.
Whoosh—
Crack!
"No—ah!"
Whoosh—
Crack!
"Aaah, my leg—murder, this is murder, I'll sue you for murder."
Finally on his feet.
Simon tilted his head up, vision tinged red. Hearing the youth's words, a thought flashed: Murder, huh? Nice charge.
But.
One, two, three, four.
Oh.
Seems one's missing.
Can't have that.
Footsteps behind—Simon turned and pursued.
The first scream from the alley made Matthew Broderick sense something wrong; he recognized it as one of his buddies.
Then.
Second!
Third!
Fourth!
Matthew Broderick's limbs chilled, sobriety hitting hard as the booze wore off.
The clearer his mind, the deeper the terror.
The commotion grew—nearby homes lit up, dogs barked.
Matthew Broderick touched the door, tempted to check.
But courage failed him.
Maybe just my imagination.
He stared fixedly at the alley mouth, hoping his pals would saunter out laughing like always.
Then.
Someone emerged.
But Matthew Broderick saw a horror he'd never forget for years.
Mark Stein, half his face bloody, barely appeared at the alley before slamming down like hit by a truck.
Then, that filth-covered figure—human or monster?—silently followed, bat in hand. Ignoring the pleas and screams, he grabbed Mark Stein's leg and dragged him back into the shadows like a dead dog.
Moments later, similar wails echoed again.
Death.
The word flashed in Matthew Broderick's mind.
Unaware, his limbs trembled.
Brain frozen briefly, he suddenly recalled his spot—fearing discovery, he shakily slid to the driver's seat, started the car, and fled the terror-stricken scene without a backward glance.