Nick Cage didn’t just enter the room; he manifested within it, a whirlwind of leather fringe and existential dread. He was currently staring at a life-sized wax statue of himself from Face/Off , wondering if the wax version had better career prospects.

"Is something wrong, Nicky?" Javi asked, his eyes filled with genuine love.

He took the gig. The host was Javi, a billionaire with the soul of a fanboy and a DVD collection that could be seen from space. They didn't just bond; they catalyzed. They spent three days drinking expensive mezcal and debating why Con Air was actually a neo-realist masterpiece.

"Just... the weight, Javi," Nick said, leaning into the absurdity. "The unbearable weight... of all this talent ."

"Nick," his agent’s voice crackled over the phone, sounding like sandpaper on silk. "The birthday party. One million dollars. All you have to do is be... you ."

"Being me is a full-time job, Richard," Nick whispered, his eyes widening in that specific way that suggested he might either weep or hijack a plane. "It’s an Olympic sport. It's a high-wire act over a volcano of cinematic history!"