“Bring him in.”

Disney CEO Mohandas Patel thus commanded his assistants to usher in the talent. They nodded solemnly, though he got the subtle feeling that they dreaded this task. He wondered why. Not everyone got to meet a grade A celebrity like this.

Still, they performed. Patel’s assistants came back a minute later, carrying in their arms the emaciated, desiccated body of Harrison Ford, now 253 years old, kept alive by an unholy mix of genetic reprogramming, cryogenics, and robotics. The two assistants held him by the elbows, or rather, the well-oiled joints of the two steel limbs science had bestowed upon him as a “gift,” right along with his metallic legs, artificial heart, and titanium skull. He was more machine than man now. The only remaining organic part of him, his face, stirred as Patel’s assistants sat Ford down in the leather chair opposite of Patel. His mouth moved, slowly, until he was finally able to form words. A few seconds later, Ford’s electronic vocal cords kicked in.

“Let me die,” the wraith spoke. “Every day I pray to Shiva, let me die.”

“No, no, Mr. Ford,” Patel forbade, holding his hand up in false concern. “We would never let that happen. Our shareholders would have my head. You are a great asset to the company.”

“I would sell my soul for you to unhook me from that blasted device!” Ford moaned.

He was referring to his preservation chamber, right next to the cloning vats where they produced an endless supply of Mouseketeers and the Dybukk box Uncle Walt’s soul supposedly resided in. Patel rolled his eyes.

“The executor of your estate signed a contract, Mr. Ford,” Patel reminded him. “You must perform your most lucrative roles for eternity. In return, your descendants live like kings!”

“Fortune and glory,” Ford muttered. “That’s what they’ve gotten.”

“Yes, they have,” Patel continued. “Which means you will be starring in our latest production: Indiana Jones and the Lost City of Chicago!”

Ford moaned at the thought. It might have brought back bad memories. Ford was alive when Chicago sank into Lake Michigan during that seismic instability a century ago. Patel began to explain the plot. This story would occur fifty years later, where Indiana Jones, now immortal after having shamelessly retrieved the Holy Grail from the wreckage of its final resting place during the seventh sequel, decided he needed a book from his old house, now deep underwater, and would be willing to risk his life in a submersible to get it. Little does he know he is being pursued by a clan of Neo-Incels led by an attractive blonde German woman, a combination which made no sense on its face. The Neo-Incels kidnap Indiana and dangle him above a snake pit in Wrigley Park (how it got there while being underwater for decades no one could tell). Indiana would escape the snake pit, get into a fist fight with a giant Incel who would die in a horrifying way, engage in an absurd chase scene, obtain the book from this shelf, and then go home with Rhys Davies, currently kept in another preservation chamber, making jokes about his name.

“No, no, no,” Ford begged. “This will never work.”

“You don’t believe in the script?” Patel asked, with an evil smile growing on his face. “You will, Mr. Ford, you will become a true believer!”

Patel laughed evilly and held up the script, which exploded into flames. No one would stop them. They would shoot another entry for this franchise, even if the last one caused people’s heads to melt and explode during its opening weekend. Another crappy Indiana Jones movie. Then Ford interrupted Patel’s evil celebration.

“What about the flashback sequence?” he asked.

Patel stopped laughing. The script ceased burning in his hand, as if someone had poured water on it.

“Flashback sequence?” Patel asked.

“Yeah, in every one of these shitty movies you make now, there’s a flashback sequence,” Ford answered. “They de-age me, set the scene back in the 40s, let Indiana fight Nazis again.”

“Yes, we have a scene like that,” Patel admitted, nodding his head gravely. “It’s our way of tormenting the audience by reminding them that you used to be cool.”

“Why not make an entire movie like that?”

“What?”

“Forget this stupid bullshit where Indiana Jones is still alive at the age of 200 or something,” Ford continued. “Just have an entire movie where Indiana’s still young and fighting Nazis. You have the technology to produce that.”

“Well,” Patel stalled. “Some people find that use of CGI to be creepy.”

“Creepier than this?” Ford asked sarcastically, moving his robotic hands over his Frankenstein body. “Look, you’re not going to stop making these movies. I wish you would, but you won’t. So at least make them the best you can. It’s just a new form of animation. I’ll even voice act in it. Just please don’t subject the American public to this again. I mean, you want to make a good movie, don’t you?”

Patel stroked his chin in evident thought. Did he want to make a good movie? He’d come up in the company being taught the Disney way: take previously popular properties and beat them to death until the audience cried for mercy. Maybe there was a better way to make money than just throwing out content like fish chum. Could they actually understand what made these properties great before the company bought them and recover the things audiences loved about them in the past?

“No, I’d rather do this,” Patel responded. “My assistants will wheel you out to the back lot where we’ll be shooting the underwater scene. The submersible is pretty cool. Can you believe the guy we rented it from uses a PlayStation controller to steer it?”

Ford, surprisingly, smiled. He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes.

“Well, Shiva, looks like you finally got around to answering that prayer.”