'Hello, Stark Industries.'

'Pretend you're talking to me.'

'I am talking to you.

'Pretend your talking to me about a horrific tragedy.'

'And why would I do that, Sir?'

'To give me the excuse I need to get out of the world's most boring company dinner.'

'And, considering that I was the one who actually arrange said dinner, why do you think I would be the one to help you escape it.'

'Potts, I need out. Cormish is talking about his golf handicap. A handicap of six? What the hell does that mean? It doesn't sound very high.'

'It's not meant to be. Lower is better.'

'Well, I think he's pulling random numbers out of his whole-in-one.'

'That may be the worst golf related euphemism on the planet.'

'I'm sure he's making things up to try and sound impressive.'

'"Making things up"? Didn't you call me up to help you fake a disaster?'

'It's all about the context, Potts. I was thinking maybe we could say that one of the labs exploded…'

'Mr. Stark, go back to the dinner, sign the Georgia defence contract and skip desert. It will be three hours. Tops.'

'Okay, good plan, but I would like to tweak it a little, if you don't mind. How about you negotiate the Georgia contact and I skip the entire meal.'

'Goodnight, Mr. Stark.'

'Potts, you can't leave me here. I'm pretty sure this dinner is one of the circles of hell described in Dante's Inferno. I've been here twenty minutes and I've already changed my stance on euthanasia. If Brooks mentions his cat's cold one more time, I will not have the willpower to stop my brain melting out my ears. Obadiah won't be pleased if the CEO of his company became a vegetable.'

'I'm not certain he'll be able to tell the difference, sir.'

'Such hostility, Potts. Is this aggression steaming from some sort of deep-seated childhood incident?'

'No, it's steaming from something a little more recent.'

'Such as?'

'The fact I was meant to be at that dinner but, after the paparazzi caught you in that dumpster, I have been using all of my time trying to smooth things over with the shareholders.'

'Serious? You were meant to endure this agony on my behalf?'

'Yep. Bought a dress and everything.'

'Then why are you not in that dress in this restaurant stopping me from attacking Verne with a dessert fork? Get down here, Potts! That's an order.'

'An order?'

'Yes. I hear other bosses do it all the time.'



'I told you I have to fix this mess. Your mess. Ember magazine is leading with the headline "From Dashing Daredevil to Dumpster Diver."'

'Really? That's a bit overblown…'

'Mr. Stark…'

'I'm not a writer but I've have been told that you should "Always Avoid Alliteration."'

'Sir, I don't have time for this. I need to get back to work and you need to get back to that dinner.'

'Okay, okay, I'll compromise with you; you come down here and keep me sane, and I'll help you calm down with the shareholders with the famous Stark charm. We'll share the load.'


'I would get on my knees and beg but you would have to take my word on that, since we're on the phone and all.'

'And by helping me you mean genuine help. Not the type of help where you sit beside me making quippy remarks while I do all the work?'

'Yes. It will be completely different to how I handled all my English assignments in high school. You on your way, Potts?'

'Let me get changed. Why were you even in a dumpster?'

'I would tell you but you wouldn't believe me.'

'C'mon. It can't be that weird.'

'Well… it involves a racoon and my Rolex.'

'I've changed my mind. I don't believe you.'