Bing was tapping his foot on the floor irritably, in a nervous tic.A lot of sheets of paper were scattered on the floor, in the trash can and all over the desktop.The man straightens his disheveled hair, looking at the clock on the wall, it's exactly midnight, and he still hasn't finished writing the script for his new film.He furrows his brows in frustration, sipping his iced coffee.Disgusting taste. Christopher Bing was a terribly stubborn man, to the point where he was ready to create crazy things like clones, mutants, and even zombies.But in the end, it didn't seem to impress sophisticated viewers, which was frustrating. "What's wrong with all of them?" Director muttered some barely audible insults under his breath, then took the written piece of text and, after reading it, threw it into the trash.He took a new sheet of paper, starting to write another idea in his messy handwriting, periodically chewing on the tip of a blue gel pen.