This is the debut of my new weekly feature, Entourage:2039. It’s a piece of speculative fiction about where the characters from HBO’s Entourage will be in 30 years. Entourage:2039 will be published every Monday. Eventually I will probably migrate it to its own blog, but for now it’s here. I think it goes without saying this is not endorsed by or associated with HBO or the producers of Entourage in any way.
Come back Monday for chapter two!
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Chapter One: Vince.
Vincent Chase, at 60, is a disgrace.
Once this beautiful boy bestrode the Earth like Colossus of old. The foreign markets fell to his boyish grin and tangled hair as if he had been Caesar- and he could have been Caesar, too, if he hadn’t lost the lead in the $80 million dollar Roman epic when a bitter D-girl ex- of Eric’s screwed them over with the studio. But something else came up, there was always another role, the timing was infallible, like someone somewhere was pulling the strings to give Vince just what he needed just when he needed it – they started to joke about it after a while. But Vince starred in the biopic of Giorgio Armani and it was a hit and he walked out the other side bigger than ever, with all wrongs forgotten, having fucked his leading lady and both of her stand-ins. And he got a shitload of free suits, too.
The sun would always shine on Vinnie Chase, because someone was always reflecting it there.
But now. Now he was fat. His once beautiful hair, his pride and joy, hung dirty, unconditioned and untouched for years by hands of two-hundred-dollar stylist. Alone he sat, alone in the penthouse condo high above Vine Street. He’d paid 14 million dollars for the place when the building went up, paid it without batting an eyelash because he was Vincent Chase, often the biggest movie star in the world, and because from his immaculate terrace he could actually look down on the rooftop swimming pool of the W hotel on the next block.
It had been Turtle who had conceived and executed what came to be known among those lucky enough to be invited to Vincent Chase’s penthouse as simply The System. It was a thing of genius in its way. Without ever leaving the comfort of Vince’s bachelor pad, they would observe by high-powered telescope the nubile bikini-ed beauties at poolside. A bellman at the hotel was a weed contact of Turtle’s- a quick text message with a description of the women in question, a discreet message sent to poolside indicating the interest of the man who was either or would soon again be the World’s Biggest Movie Star, and the women (or girls: Turtle’s connection would check IDs when their target’s youthful appearances merited it), were on their way to Vince’s place and a story they could tell their grandkids.
Turtle. Vince tried to remember the last time he had seen his face. The least talented of his inner circle, but somehow the the most real. People always liked Turtle, because they could relate to him. Just a guy who got lucky. Vince sometimes used to wonder if he kept Turtle around as some kind of trophy of humility and authenticity- just to prove that he, Vince, was still just a guy from Queens, that being the world’s being movie star, then not, than the world’s biggest movie star again, and so on, hadn’t changed him, not really, not at his core.
No. He had never been that cynical. He loved Turtle, always had, always would. And Eric. And Drama, his own brother. They looked nothing alike, but Johnny had been his own flesh and blood, or half anyway. How long had Johnny been gone now? Ten years? More? Vince fingered the platinum locket with Johnny’s picture in it.
Later. The high persistent whine of the door buzzer brought him out of his reverie. How long had he been sitting there like that, staring into the bewildered eyes of his brother, Johnny- a man who had always been lost, in his way, but was now lost irrevocably. With an effort he stirred himself and went to the intercom. There were multiple layers of security in place to restrain unwanted guests and overenthusiastic fans, but Vince pressed the button without even bothering to ask who it was. He knew who it was. For years now, he had only had one visitor.
Two-and-a-half minutes later, Vince, affecting his best remaining approximation of perfect movie-star ease, unlocked the six locks and opened the door to his visitor. She smiled at him like he was the one person in the world she wanted to see more than she had ever wanted anything else.
But then, hadn’t they all?
Chapter One: Vince.
Vincent Chase, at 60, is a disgrace.
Once this beautiful boy bestrode the Earth like Colossus of old. The foreign markets fell to his boyish grin and tangled hair as if he had been Caesar- and he could have been Caesar, too, if he hadn’t lost the project when a bitter D-girl ex- of Eric’s screwed them over with the studio. But something else came up, there was always another role, the timing was infallible, like someone somewhere was pulling the strings to give Vince just what he needed just when he needed it – they started to joke about it after a while. But Vince starred in the biopic of Giorgio Armani and it was a hit and he walked out the other side bigger than ever, with all wrongs forgotten, having fucked his leading lady and both of her stand-ins. And he got a shitload of free suits, too. The sun would always shine on Vinnie Chase, because someone was always reflecting it there.
But now. Now he was fat. His once beautiful hair, his pride and joy, hung dirty, unconditioned and untouched for years by hands of two-hundred-dollar stylist. Alone he sat, alone in the penthouse condo high above Vine Street. He’d paid 14 million dollars for the place when the building went up, paid it without batting an eyelash because he was Vincent Chase, often the biggest movie star in the world, and because from his immaculate terrace he could actually look down on the rooftop swimming pool of the W hotel on the next block.
It had been Turtle who had conceived and executed what came to be known among those lucky enough to be invited to Vincent Chase’s penthouse as simply The System. It was a thing of genius in its way. Without ever leaving the comfort of Vince’s bachelor pad, they would observe by high-powered telescope the nubile bikini-ed beauties at poolside. A bellman at the hotel was a marijuana contact of Turtle’s- a quick test message with a description of the women in question, a discreet message sent to poolside indicating the interest of the man who was either or would soon again be the World’s Biggest Movie Star, and the women, or girls (Turtle’s connection would check IDs when their target’s youthful appearances merited it), were on there way to Vince’s place.
Turtle. Vince tried to remember the last time he had seen his face. The least talented of his inner circle, but somehow the the most real. People always liked Turtle, because they could relate to him. Just a guy who got lucky. Vince sometimes used to wonder if he kept Turtle around as some kind of trophy of humility and authenticity- just to prove that he, Vince, was still just a guy from Queens, that being the world’s being movie star, then not, than the world’s biggest movie star again, and so on, hadn’t changed him, not really, not at his core.
No. He had never been that cynical. He loved Turtle, always had, always would. And Eric. And Drama, his own brother. They looked nothing alike, but Johnny had been his own flesh and blood, or half anyway. How long had Johnny been gone now? Ten years? More? Vince fingered the platinum locket with Johnny’s picture in it.
Later. The high persistent whine of the door buzzer brought him out of his reverie. How long had he been sitting there like that, staring into the bewildered eyes of his brother, Johnny- a man who had always been lost, in his way, but was now lost irrevocably. With an effort he stirred himself and went to the intercom. There were multiple layers of security in place to restrain unwanted guests and overenthusiastic fans, but Vince pressed the button without even bothering to ask who it was. He knew who it was. For years now, he had only had one visitor.
Two-and-a-half minutes later, Vince, affecting his best remaining approximation of perfect movie-star ease, unlocked the six locks and opened the door to his visitor. She smiled at him like he was the one person in the world she wanted to see more than she had ever wanted anything else.
But then, hadn’t they all?
Ryan M. Moore 