Yesterday, we introduced you to the leaked chick-lit manuscript of mogul wife Leslie Zemeckis, who is married to Forrest Gump director Robert Zemeckis. Our publishing elf dubbed in "exhausting" as well as "derivative... clichéd and unpolished" in a reader's report. When we last left off, 24-year-old heiress/divorcee Natalie was sitting on the floor of her condo wearing a Juicy couture tracksuit, watching Entertainment Tonight and reading tabloids while spilling marinana sauce on herself. Now, we're introduced to Finn, the hottest young actor in town, who lives with his elderly Irish mother: "Finn took a swig from a 1992 bottle of Beaujolais and washed his mouth out as the blonde with the killer fake tits strolled by his bed..."
"...Her naked, muscular body glistened with the almond oil that he had been rubbing between her every nook and cranny for the past several hours. He lit his 3rd cigarette of the day and checked the Rolex strapped to his hairy wrist. 8:30. Damn but it was early and it had been a late night and he felt like fuck-shit, even though he'd been blown from kingdom cum and back. It was a typical Tuesday night troll through Hollywood with his friends, all of them but him desperate to get laid. He'd found the blonde at the second bar. Like the rest of them she was easy for Finn Collins, the hottest young actor in town, to get into bed. Finn rolled out of bed, off the wrinkled, stained sheets, still damp from two bodies being entangled between them all night. He disappeared into the bathroom as the blonde started dressing. He turned on the shower, stood under the hot stream, and rubbed soap on his limp penis. It was actually sore. The blonde had given him some workout. Since "arriving" in Hollywood three years before he'd slept with countless starlets, fathered a child out of wedlock and shot no less than seven medium-budget action films, as well as a few historical dramas. He was perceived to be the ruthless bachelor no woman in town could tie down but the truth was he hadn't found anyone worth staying with much longer than a night. He wasn't about to lose his heart to some silicone-injected Hollywood whore. Not one of them – and he couldn't count how many there had been – was good enough to bring home to his ma, figuratively at least. Literally he didn't have much of a choice. His mother lived in the bottom half of his two-story house perched above Sunset Boulevard with a spectacular view – babe magnet view – a pool and not much else for the money...Mother Collins was a saint, she was. Dublin born, a gal who liked her pint and could hold it too, she was proud of her son's success. She'd raised him like a prince, even on a housekeeper's wage. She never let him forget he was special. Better than all the rest. She sacrificed everything for him when he was growing up. He played in the streets while she worked as many jobs as she could find. She never bought a new dress that wasn't from a thrift store and she practically prostituted herself to a distant relative to send Finn to school in London, where he'd studied Shakespeare and gotten his break treading the boards on the West End in a big important drama she didn't much understand but didn't care, because all the critics wrote about what a marvel her lad was. When Hollywood had called, of course he'd packed her up and taken her with him. Now she lived like the Queen. Drivers to take her whereever she wanted to go, not that she ever wanted to go anywhere other than a dicey Chinese restaurant downtown called Mrs. Foo's. She'd become fast friends with Mrs. Foo, an eighty-two year old bird who gave out advice along with the city's best take-out. Mrs. Foo held court six nights a week. Many an afternoon Ma Collins had sat at Mrs. Foo's tiny restaurant on a gang-ridden street downtown, eating wonton soup and pouring her heart out about her son and the "tramps" he was bringing home. "My lad's going to catch something from them," she would say, sake in hand. "I don't know why he can't find a nice girl to settle down with." Mrs. Foo would squint her eyes, set her wrinkled face and tell Ma Collins not to worry. "Wild oats. Let him sow and he'll always be yours. If you stop him now he will marry someone wrong and she will cut you out of his life." Ma Collins lived in fear of someone taking her boy from her. For twenty-four years she'd poured every ounce of her being into making sure he'd had the opportunities she never did. Wild oats or not, she'd be damned if some clap-ridden skank was going to get hold of her son and ruin everything. Ma Collins spent most of her time watching the telly, her skinny feet propped up on an ottoman, resting after forty years of slaving away, washing stains out of other peoples' clothes. "Morning ma," said and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She smelled of lemon and baby powder and sat on a barstool at the lime green breakfast counter sipping tea, not saying anything, her mouth a silent gash in a caved in face. "Do you have your teeth in ma?" She hated the expensive new teeth he'd bought her. Silently she reached into a drawer and slid them in. Finn stood looking at his mother with love, a towel draped around his waist. His muscles on his chest were hard and white. "Ma?" he said. "Aren't you going to at least say ‘Good morning'?" "That whore forgot her underclothes." She held up a tiny triangle of cotton nothing. There was nothing to cover the bottom with. No more than a piece of string. This is a crazy country, the old woman thought. It was a good thing she was here to protect her poor vulnerable boy from the likes of these girls all looking for a rich husband so they could sit on their skinny behinds all day and kick her into an old age home. "Forgot? Where is she? You didn't kick her out? Not another, ma? I told you. Let me do that, it's not polite." "Are you wearing protection son? Already one child, ya don't need another," she warned.