It's almost midnight at the Plaza and Martin Scorsese is in fine spirits. His latest work, The Irishman - a mob flick about the man responsible for the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa - is poised to make a killing at the box office. The Avengers: Return of Captain America and Thor VIII both tanked in their opening weeks, grossing a mere combined $580 billion (a severe underperformance for Marvel). Marty has his reasons to believe The Irishman will fare better - the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. They're saying it might be his best gangster movie since Casino. People are already talking Oscar buzz for De Niro, and there's a very good chance that Joe Pesci or relative newcomer Jim Norton (in a star-making turn as legendary comedian Don Rickles) will receive a nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Even his nemesis, Harold Goldbergstein (chief film critic for the Atlantic), has grudgingly admitted that it's the best movie he's seen all year.

Scorsese is having a damn good time at the party. He's chatting with the cast and crew, with reporters, with everybody. He and De Niro talked for twenty minutes. Why hadn't he grabbed that beer with Bobby sooner? Ever since he finished Silence, everything's felt oddly calm, almost zen. He feels like he can enjoy himself for the first time in years, maybe even for the first time in his entire life.

The party is winding down, he and Leo (who wasn’t in the movie but has shown up to the star-studded premiere) are on their way out when a firm hand grasps his shoulder. Marty turns around to see some beast of a security officer with a bulging pitbull neck. The guard is escorting a balding slob with a stained shirt. Marty (correctly) assumes this is semen from its pancake batter scent. “Mr. Scorsese, I hate to interrupt, but this man is claiming to be a VIP. Not on the list though. You want me to throw him out?”

The slob says “I’m a guest of Jim Norton’s. We’ve actually met before Mart-” The security officer tells him to shut the fuck up.

Now Marty’s squinting at this fat fuck. He does look somewhat familiar. Huey? Huey something or other? “Someone grab Jim.”

Another guest gathers Jim Norton from the canapé table. “Hey Jim. Jim, do you know this guy?”

Norton’s eyes are frozen like a deer in headlights. Finally he speaks: “I have no idea who that is.”

Louis CK is weeping as the guard drags him away. “It’s not fair… it’s not fair!”

Bobby Cannavale titters in the background.