Benioff and Weiss Writing Game of Thrones

Benioff and Weiss sit on leather couches in a luxurious living space. Benioff has a glass of sparkling mineral water in his hand; it was flown down from the Rocky Mountains only a day before. Weiss has a pile of the finest cocaine spread out on the coffee table. A clump of it is stuck in his right nostril.

"Well it's time to do some work, B," Weiss says, sniffling. He takes a pencil out of his pocket and spends a couple minutes trying to place it in between his fingers.

"Yep, got to get this shit finished," replies Benioff. He opens his laptop and clicks on a Word document entitled "Big Budget Fantasy Shit That'll Make Us as Rich as Davey Crockett."

"Okay, so they killed the ice dude, and now Jon and Dragon Lady have to get to King's Landing for the real final confrontation with Lena Headey. How we going to set that up? After killing a million zombies, it's kind of a let-down to get back to hum-drum mortal affairs."

"Maybe we should've done it the other way," suggests Weiss. "Have them deal with Cersei first, then fight the Night King."

"Naw, Lena's our best actor, so she's gotta be the main villain. You haven't been looking at George's notes again, have you? I thought I burned those."

"You did," admits Weiss. He takes some cocaine and smears it on his cheeks like war paint.

"You and me, bro, we're the real geniuses here. We don't need George's notes. If that tunky bastard cared about Game of Thrones, he would've finished the story years ago. He'd rather roll around in the massive pile of money HBO gave him."

Weiss snorts.

"He ain't getting paid shit compared to us," he says.

"That's because we're the real brains behind the throne, so to speak," says Benioff. "You like that line? Maybe we can have Tyrion say it."

"We got to come up with an outline first," says Weiss. "How are we going to weaken Dany and Jon? They're still too strong to make Cersei a believable threat."

"The same thing we always do, bro. Let's pull something out of our asses. Wait! I got it! Get rid of one of the dragons!"

"They're supposed to be the medieval equivalent of nuclear weapons," responds Weiss. "How are we going to get rid of something that we've built up to be so powerful? We got rid of the Night King and his rocket arm."

"Okay, so Urine..."

"It's Euron."

"Same difference. Eurotrash pirate guy installs some big-ass crossbows on his fleet. These crossbows are so big that they punch right through Dany's ships like they're made of twigs. So he's got a big sight on his cross bow, and he aims it at one of the dragons like he's aiming a machine gun. Boom! Dogo's dead! Shocking!"

"We can't kill Drogo yet. That's Dany's dragon. We have to kill the other one. Rhaegal or whatever he's called."

"Okay, so we've murdered Ronald. We have to have a shocking human death too. Who do you think should get the axe?"

Weiss coughs and flutters his eyelids. He seems to have momentarily forgotten where he is or what he was doing.

"I got it!" he says moments later. "How many black people we got on this show? Like two?"

"Diversity hires," says Benioff by way of explanation.

"Let's kill one of them," suggests Weiss.

"Yeah, that'll piss off the internet. Good idea. Got anything else?"

"Like, maybe we should include some good dialogue and interesting character interaction so that people remember why they started watching the show in the first place."

Benioff stares at Weiss like he's just admitted that he's a cannibal.

"I knew it. You got George's notes somewhere, don't you? You copied them. Goddamnit, bro.

"I don't know what the fuck we're doing," admits Weiss.

"The audience doesn't care, bro! They come for the tits, blood, and dragons! We only got two more of these to write, and then we get to fuck up Star Wars! Star Wars, man! Can you imagine?"

Weiss snorts the rest of the cocaine off the coffee table and leans back in his seat.

"You're right, man. Do whatever you want. I'm going to check out for a bit. Maybe visit the Lord of Light."

"Alright," says Benioff. He jumps up and down, screaming like a monkey while ramming his knuckles on the keyboard. After fifteen minutes or so he tires and saves his hard work.