In a lush Hollywood office that reeks of post coitus Harvey Weinstein drapes a silk button up over his sweat drenched body. A few feet away from him, a girl with a thousand yard stare is mindlessly dressing herself. She tries to clasp her bra on but her hands are shaking like they are riddled with arthritis. Harvey grabs her hands and the girl tenses up. “You’re shaking like a wet dog sweetheart, here let me do that.” He puppets her hands and successfully clasps the bra on. “There’s no need to be nervous like that, you are our newest star after all.” He hands her a sheet of paper and the girl absentmindedly takes it. It’s a 10 year actor’s contract for Miramax. The girl forces a faint smile and Harvey slaps her on the ass. “Now go down to my secretary and she’ll finish the rest of the paperwork.” The girl yips and scuttles over to the exit. Just before she leaves Harvey says, “oh, and sweetheart… welcome to Hollywood.” The girl ducks out and Harvey lets out a wet cough. He waddles over the liquor cabinet by his desk and pours himself a neat whisky. Just before he puts it to his lips he stops and looks directly at the camera. He smiles, winks, and softly sings, “There’s no business like show business, there’s no business I know.” Suddenly, rag-time music begins playing from the ether. Harvey rushes out of the office and picks up his tempo, “everything about it is appealing! Everything the traffic will allow! Nowhere else can you get that happy feeling!” Harvey dances through the Miramax building and as he does all the fat, sweaty executives and producers join him in song and dance. They blob of sweaty producers slithers out of the building and continues their song and dance in the streets of LA. More and more producers from all over the sunshine state join the flash mob until even the homeless are eclipsed by their number. They continue singing as they walk into the gorgeous Hollywood sunset.