“Script Money” The Novel

Script Money

Samirah Cromartie, the director of works like "The Penprint" biopic and "Sak Life," has bided on her money man and struck gold. Now Cromartie Productions and Kareem Cashmere, writer/rapper CEO of Script Money Entertainment, are fusing and launching what Hollywood box offices and TV networks are dubbing on-air "Script Money." Their primetime happy hour has brought Tinseltown in to speculate privately: can Kareem's reign uphold giving binge viewers the addictive drama they love? Will Samirah curate her workmate's Tarantino-esque scripts and a throne of talented writers to continue making back-to-back hits? Can Black entertainment portray enough excitement and value to withstand big stakes come academy award season? Script Money has everyone watching, locked in.

The only business at an indie studio was running so smoothly, never without its high-end and often shady problems. Cromartie has golden shows she lends to producers. She directs Kareem's risqué projects, not afraid to flop with any of her writer's pitches and encompassing how Black women can showcase any range of cinematic hits, with genre-spanning star power on the silver screen and primetime slots.

Script Money is always beefing up for any competitive box office mates. The through-line of studio grease-handling and super-producer payola sucking the attention from their Hollywood prestige. But, somehow, there's a breadwinner forever leading the troops.

Cashmere never misses a kill with fearless clarity. They were running a gang of role-players and writers around him with the essence of a general orchestrating a media regime where failing doesn't exist in this family. This one can finesse good business and very caked-up budgets. Conveying the bottom line: scandals will rain on any studio; some talents must work out their lines. And whenever situations on set need closing, leave the order to Kareem. He does know a thing or two about putting in his work.

And Script Money is an everyday lifestyle for an entertainer.

I dedicated this novel to Kareem "Heem" Nicholson & Jelani "Lotto" McCowan, whose names will live on behind the scenes even though the Nawfside took them too soon. I hope this collection empowers brothers never to dream too big or fear the risk of soaring into the unthinkable.

Excerpt from the first chapter…

"Throned! TV playback...in three...two…ACTION!!"

She wore boots with a bikini. The two-piece she slew in. A black Givenchy cut-out set with gold loops showing off thicker curves than some emaciated model lying in the sand. But she wore this to start a war. Her boots, some hi-tech leather pair. Black and polished with floppy strings and rose her toned calves. The shoes weren't meant for running, fleeing from battle if need be. However, she rocked the reckless fashion kill, knowing she would get whacked. Soon as she popped the ops first.

Flaring in the wind was a Giambattista Valli floral pattern robe coat. She wore it lightly to cover her brown skin from the July sun. The woman held a smirk below her sunglasses as she entered their massive backyard spread. She was toting a RED 8K camcorder and a T-shirt bazooka on her shoulder brigade-style. "At Script Money, we can just about film any motherfucking thing." She says, pulling a wheeled wagon filled with colorful balloons. Balloons loaded with green slime. "We shoot movies. Do you need your Only Fans filmed on this? You can have a soundtrack recording in the house by Metro himself."

Imani Thicke brought the slime for anybody in the comfort of Kareem's birthday bash. Anybody bathing in complete bliss—beneath the cabana of soft couches, having drinks at the underwater bar or poolside hitting the rock-mounted slide repeatedly. All of them lying around in beach chairs and listening to Lil Baby while the conversation erupted throughout the pool party— as if your vibe couldn't get fucked up when she spins your block.

Maybe, the luxury around here made people feel things didn't get nasty. "It's all we do here. It's sad, you know, all we ever do is work and act like kids." She laughed funnier.

Inside, the humor of filming this ambush was sashaying in her thighs. Cameras were rolling for this takeout on the Throned reality show. Millions of fans devour Kareem's shooting events and everyday parties every week. All Script Money art and visuals were from every social media layer to the culture of young rich Atlanta what ATLiens was to the 90s. Imani had vowed to make this episode the slickest attack of the summer.

"Look at this sneaky ass bullshit!" Lotto shrunk into his beach chair. "Nigga I can not afford this shit; wait till I get my dog high for his G day." Imani sizes Lotto as she pops into the crowd. Kareem's younger brother is shirtless, catching vibes from a tandem of ladies and enjoying all the benefits of being the CEO's closest heir.

Instead, the family watches him implode instead of these broke groupies.

"Don't you want to let these gnats know that behind that mask and cape, you must've lost you're slime ball, little shit bird?" Imani bombs on Lotto with a T-shirt launcher first. "I think so!!" she laughs.

"What the fuck!" slime muffles the words from his face. His side pieces scream and accept the fate of a not-so-cute afternoon affair. His entire posse scattered as Imani shot them repeatedly. Some were on the mark, and other balloons obliterated the patio deck on their 17,000-square-foot property.

"Woah! Oh! You with the shits on sight, yeah."

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