What if Tony Montana had done Alejandro Sosa the favor and had helped Shadow assasinate the activist, his wife and kids, instead of killing Shadow?
Alternate scene
Tony returns and meets Sosa after the assasination
Sosa: Thank you, Tony. Great job, my friend.
Tony looks devastated and angry.
Tony: Fuck you! I am going to hell because of you.
Sosa: Tony, you have done a great thing for my business. We will do great things together.
Tony: I am going to hell!
Tony sits down, with his head in his hands.
Sosa: Tony, can I count on your loyalty? I don't want a reason to question your loyalty, Tony. I need you to work for me.
Tony looks up, very angry.
Tony: I killed a woman and her kids! I only have one rule. No woman and kids!
Sosa: You did what you had to do, Tony. Can I always count on you to do what is neccessary?
Tony looks up, baffled.
Tony: What the fuck are you talking about? I killed a woman and her kids for you. I am going to hell, and I did it anyway. And you doubt me? Fuck you, Sosa. Fuck you!
Tony then hits the table in agony.
Tony: I will be your top guy until I die, and then I will spend the rest of my fucking life getting butt-fucked by Satan, all for you ... and you doubt my loyalty? Fuck you!
Tony then storms off, breaking a few things, looking tragic.
Sosa calls over Shadow: Watch him closely, Shadow. Watch him closely.
Shadow looks angrily over at Tony and starts to aggressively follow him.
Sosa: Wait a fucken moment!
He pulls Shadow over.
Sosa: Take care of him. Make sure nothing happens to him. He is my top guy, and you work for him now. I am worried that he might hurt himself.
Shadow calms down;
Sosa: If he hurts himself in anyway, you are dead, my friend. If he dies, you die. Understand?
Shadow nods obediently
A Short Story
Inspired by the song HOTEL CALIFORNIA
by the Eagles
The desert stretched endlessly before me, a blackened sea of sand under a moonless sky. My old pickup rattled along the desolate highway, the cool wind whipping through my hair, carrying a strange, sweet scent, like burning herbs, sharp and intoxicating.
Colitas, maybe, though I didn’t know the word then. It curled into my lungs, making my thoughts hazy. Up ahead, a faint light flickered, a beacon in the void. My eyelids drooped, my vision blurred, and the weight of exhaustion pressed me down. I had to stop. I didn’t have a choice.
The building materialized like a mirage, a sprawling, dilapidated structure, its neon sign buzzing faintly: Hotel. The light shimmered, unnatural, pulling me closer. I parked and stumbled out, my legs heavy as lead. At the doorway stood a woman, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the entrance.
Her eyes glinted, sharp and unblinking, like a predator’s. A distant bell tolled, low and mournful, vibrating...
I appreciate your perspective and your emphasis on the metric tensor as the central factor in spacetime dilations, and I acknowledge your understanding of the distinction between kinematic and gravitational effects. Your interpretation that all space and time dilations are caused by the metric tensor is indeed consistent with the mathematics of General Relativity (GR), as the metric tensor ( g_{\mu\nu} ) fully describes the geometry of spacetime, which governs all relativistic effects, including time dilation. Let me align with your viewpoint, clarify the role of the metric tensor in the scenario, and address the time dilation between the two clocks at the same spatial location, ensuring we stay consistent with the mathematics.
Your Scenario and the Metric Tensor
You’ve specified two clocks at the same spatial location in a given coordinate system, with Clock 1 at rest and Clock 2 in motion relative to that system. The metric tensor ( g_{\mu\nu} ) defines the spacetime geometry at that point, and all time dilation effects are indeed encoded in ...
Oh, Peg, you’re standing there in the spotlight’s glare, aren’t you? The camera loves you, they say, and who am I to argue?
Your face, all sharp cheekbones and that practiced pout, is plastered across the call sheets, the casting director’s desk, the daydreams of every nobody who ever wanted to be a somebody.
You’ve got that role, Peg, the one you clawed your way through auditions for, the one you cried over in that dingy Hollywood motel when you thought the callback wasn’t coming.
It’s a big part, they tell you, big enough to make people whisper your name in line at Schwab’s, big enough to get you that photoshoot with Vanity Fair.
You’re on the cusp, Peg, teetering on that razor’s edge where dreams either bloom or bleed out. But you know how this town works, don’t you? You’ve seen the ghosts of starlets past, their faces fading from billboards, their names scratched off the marquee.
I see you now, Peg, in that rented gown, posing for the magazine spread. The photographer’s ...
