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William groaned louder than a creaky diner door in a horror flick as he peeled his face off the sticky table. It wasn't just any stickiness—no, this was the kind that clung like regret after a bad blind date. His nose wrinkled at the assault of odors: burnt coffee that smelled like it had been brewed in a tire fire, stale waffles that had probably been sitting out since the Reagan administration, and a faint whiff of desperation that seemed to permeate the air. The tiny TV in the corner blared away, but it wasn't the Friends rerun he half-expected. Oh no. This was *Acquaintances*, a show where two accountants named Greg and Linda occasionally nodded at each other over spreadsheets while exchanging monosyllabic pleasantries. It was like if Seinfeld had been written by a committee of accountants who thought laughter was a tax-deductible expense.
William rubbed his temples, trying to massage his brain back into working order. "What in the discount bargain bin hell is this?" he muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the otherwise empty diner. He glanced around, half-expecting to see a portal or a glowing truck that had flung him into this bizarre world. But nope. Just cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox stuck on elevator music, and a newspaper with a headline that screamed: "1995: The Year of the Sitcom (Because We Have No Other Ideas)." It was dated today, which only added to the confusion. Was this some twisted dream? A coma-induced hallucination? Or had he been isekai'd into the most underwhelming alternate universe ever conceived?
*Okay, William,* he thought, *think. You're not dead—probably—because dead people don't get paper cuts from diner menus. And you're not high, unless that mystery stain on the table is some kind of contact psychedelic. So, isekai it is. Great. Just my luck to end up in a world where prime-time TV is about nodding accountants instead of, I don't know, actual friends.*
Before he could ponder further, a man in a suit that looked like it had been fished out of a thrift store clearance bin slid into the booth across from him. The suit was a tragic shade of mustard yellow, complete with a tie that had polka dots the size of dinner plates. The man beamed like he'd just won the lottery, but his eyes held the weary glint of someone who'd been peddling bad scripts for too long.
"Bill! Buddy! Pal! You ready to pitch that *genius* script of yours?" the man exclaimed, slapping the table for emphasis. A few crumbs from William's face-print on the table scattered like confetti.
William blinked, his brain short-circuiting faster than a cheap flip phone in the rain. "Who the hell are you?" He didn't mean to sound rude, but his filter had apparently decided to take a vacation along with his sense of reality.
The man's smile didn't falter; it stretched wider, like a circus clown's. "Still doing the 'amnesia' bit, huh? Classic Bill. It's me—Steve! Your agent-slash-only-friend! We've been through this a dozen times. Remember that time we pitched that sitcom about a talking toaster? Pure gold, man. The network loved it—until they realized toasters don't talk."
William stared at him, piecing together the absurdity. Steve looked like a reject from a 90s stock photo catalog: slicked-back hair that was more grease than style, a mustache that screamed "mid-life crisis," and a briefcase that bulged with what were probably scripts written on napkins. In this universe, William—Bill?—was apparently some kind of hack writer, and Steve was his hapless sidekick.
*Alright, universe,* Williamthought, *if you're going to dump me here, at least give me something to work with. No truck, no magic sword, just this guy and his bad suit. Fine. If I'm stuck, I might as well get rich. Or at least laugh my way to the bank.*
He slammed his hands on the table, making the coffee cups rattle like maracas in a bad mariachi band. "Steve. Cancel whatever garbage I was supposed to pitch. We're making *Jurassic Park*."
Steve's eyebrows shot up like they'd been launched from a slingshot. "The children's book about dinosaurs? Bill, buddy, I love your enthusiasm, but we've got standards here. The last thing the network wants is a flick about oversized lizards eating ferns. We're in the sitcom golden age—er, I mean, the Year of the Sitcom. People want laughs, not roars."
William leaned back, a manic grin spreading across his face. Oh, this was going to be fun. In his original life—wherever that was—he'd been a fan of movies, books, and all things pop culture. Now, he had insider knowledge of a blockbuster that hadn't even been made yet in this timeline. "Oh, Steve, you sweet summer child. We're not making a book adaptation about cute dinosaurs playing tag. We're making a T-Rex eat a lawyer. Picture this: massive beasts, roaring chaos, people running for their lives. It's not just a movie; it's a phenomenon!"
Steve choked on his coffee, spraying a fine mist across the table. William dodged just in time, but a few drops landed on his shirt, forming what looked suspiciously like a Rorschach test for bad decisions. "A T-Rex eating a lawyer? Bill, that's... that's brilliant! Or insane. Or both! But how do we even start? The studio's got their hands full with *Acquaintances: The Sequel*—it's about Greg and Linda attending a seminar on paper clips."
William waved him off, his mind racing with possibilities. He stood up, pacing the diner like a director on a film set. "First things first, Steve. We need to get the rights. In my—uh, in my head—there's this guy named Michael Crichton who wrote the book. Find him. Tell him we're turning it into the biggest thing since sliced bread. No, bigger—since sliced bread with dinosaurs on it!"
Steve scribbled notes on a crumpled napkin, his pen squeaking like a mouse in distress. "Alright, alright. But Bill, you know how it is here. Everything has to tie back to sitcoms. The execs might want to add a laugh track or make the T-Rex do stand-up comedy."
William snorted. "Over my dead body. Imagine it: a T-Rex telling jokes while chomping on lawyers. 'Why did the velociraptor cross the road? To get to the other tide pod!' No, Steve, we're keeping it pure. Action, adventure, a bit of science gone wrong. And let's not forget the merchandising. Toys, lunchboxes, you name it. We'll be rolling in dough like a T-Rex in a mud pit."
As they talked, the diner started to fill up with the lunch crowd—mostly folks in drab office attire, mumbling about their mundane lives. A waiter, who looked like he'd stepped out of a black-and-white comedy sketch, shuffled over with a pot of coffee that sloshed dangerously. "More coffee, gentlemen? Or perhaps some waffles? They're only slightly stale today."
William waved him away, too caught up in his pitch. "Steve, listen. In this version of Jurassic Park*, we've got scientists cloning dinosaurs on an island. Things go sideways—literally, with raptors flipping cars—and chaos ensues. But to make it work here, we add a comedic sidekick. Maybe a bumbling accountant who nods at the dinosaurs instead of people. Tie it back to *Acquaintances* for the execs. Call it *Acquaintances in the Park* or something."
Steve's eyes lit up. "Genius! We could get Greg and Linda to cameo as the accountants who accidentally fund the park. 'Oh, Greg, I think this dinosaur just nodded at me!' Instant crossover appeal."
William chuckled, but inside, he was fighting back the absurdity. This whole conversation felt like a fever dream where logic had taken a permanent vacation. He imagined pitching this to studio heads: "Yes, sirs, it's a dino-disaster with a side of laughs.