Just as Rex had taken a few steps down the gravel path from the garden, the low buzz of conversation was pierced by a sharp, angry voice.
"Stop bothering the guests with your stupid script! What do you think this is, some indie pitch festival? You're here to serve drinks, not harass VIPs with your film school fantasies."
He turned slightly, curious. A tall, gangly young man in a waiter's uniform was being scolded by a squat, red-faced supervisor who looked like he'd been plucked straight from a sitcom about failed restaurateurs. The supervisor's voice carried across the path, sharp and unrelenting.
"One more stunt like that and you're out. Don't think I won't have security toss you on your ass. I don't care how many rewrites you did. No one here wants to hear your half-baked movie pitch, got it?"
