Allow me to explain:
It was a pleasant afternoon when Frank Darabont sauntered into his meeting with George Lucas. He was late, as was his fashion: for Frank whole-heartedly subscribed to the concept of fashionable lateness; sadly his commitment to the practise often extended to something quite unfashionable, but Frank rarely concerned himself with such trifling matters.
George Lucas shifted in his chair uncomfortably and offered a lukewarm greeting. "Hello, Frank," he said. "What have you brought me this time?"
"Good morning, George. How are the wife and the kids?" Frank inquired, seemingly oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air.
George wrinkled his nose as the stench of Aqua Velva and cheap rum wafted across the room and invaded his sinuses.
"Frank," George snorted, "we need to talk. I'm beginning to get worried about Indy--." George paused, interrupted by Frank rifling through a stack of papers he dumped in the middle of the desk unceremoniously.
George cleared his throat. "As I was saying, I'm worried about the project. I need to see results."
Frank beamed. "I've been talking to Steven and Harrison, and I think we've come up with an idea you're going to love."
George perked up. "Really?" he asked, incredulously.
"Oh, absolutely!" Grinning, Frank begain to outline the concept. "It's set in the 1950s, amid growing fear and paranoia of the Soviet Union. Indiana Jones, as a respected professor of archaeology, is considering retirement when he is visited by three government agents. They have a job for him."
George leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of his desk. "This sounds great. Go on."
"The job," Frank continues, "is to investigate some relics the government unearthed in New Mexico."
"What's in New Mexico?" George asked, shifting forward on his seat.
Frank answered the question with a single word: "Roswell." Frank pulled a large, ink-covered pad of yellow legal paper out of the stack and handed it to George.
"W-w-w... what is this?" he stammered.
"What do you mean?" Frank glanced at the coffee-stained pages of the draft and back to the aging director. "It's my script."
George began reading aloud, "Indiana Jones and the Crelobs of Xylon 3?"
Frank replied, "Yeah! What do you think?"
George sank back into his chair, fingers resting against his temples as he carefully pondered his response to this question. His wits failed him, so he muttered the first thing that came to mind:
"Frank..." he started.
"Yeah?"
"Um... no."
